Razor
by abc79-de
Summary: Future Lit. Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world, and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is any indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her professional or otherwise. COMPLETE!
1. Wake Up, It's Time

Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: Wake Up, It's Time

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

"Tell me, Mr. Mariano, what is your cause?"

The unending questioning had started grating on his nerves some time ago. He'd never been interviewed before—interrogated about his actions, yes; but asked endless, inane questions about his life, his work, his art, no. His agent had talked him into talking to this person in the name of fleshing out his book jacket blurb. A new reprinting meant a new dust jacket. The publisher that picked up distribution had referred to the one he'd worked on so painstakingly for so many months as sad and uninspiring. They needed something gripping, as they'd explained through their legal representative's letter, in which they'd spelled out all the 'tiny' improvements they had planned to help his first novel climb its way further up the bestseller list.

The fucking New York Times Bestseller List. He just couldn't have fathomed this development in his life a year ago, when the small publisher that he now worked for agreed to do a modest printing run if he did all the road work of hitting book stores and conning them into stocking enough copies to make their money back.

All he'd set out to do was see his words in print and break even. A dozen or so bookstores had taken the book on—no where near enough to land his book on any bestseller list, let alone the New York Times' list. He had been fairly sure it was just one of his buddies crank calling him when he first heard the news. A dozen stores stocking three copies each told him it had to be some kind of mistake. Soon, however, he had agents calling him, trying to explain exactly how over a thousand bookstores were demanding quantity stock and future release dates and making appointments for him to sit down with someone with half his writing talent so they could ask him where he grew up and who his biggest literary influence is.

"My cause?"

She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "I mean, which charity do you give money to?"

He laughed. "You mean other than myself?"

She frowned. "It's considered poor taste not to donate a portion of your funds to the less fortunate."

"Guess my agent isn't the answer you're looking for either," he muttered. "Look, I didn't grow up having any money. I've worked menial jobs my entire life until I fell into the publishing thing in Philly. I like my work, but I don't make a lot of money doing it."

"Well, if this book is any indication of your talent, then you'll soon have more money than you know what to do with. Is there any cause close to your heart?"

He rolled his eyes. He was all for ending hunger and instituting world peace, but he wasn't sure anyone was actually going to pull that off because he gave them twenty bucks. "Not really."

"Okay," she clicked her tongue, clearly finding him to be an unwilling participant in the fame game. He'd say he hated to disappoint her, but honestly, he just wanted to get out of this stuffy office. "How about we switch gears?"

He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe she'd suggest something like him taking her to one of his old haunts. They were in New York, after all, and he knew this city like the back of his hand. He could set them up in a coffee shop in his old neighborhood and he wouldn't feel quite so corporate. "Sure."

"You use a lot of stark imagery in this book, but it's beautifully balanced out by the rich characterizations you use, particularly with the girl, Carissa."

"Cari," he nodded.

"Who was your inspiration for Cari?"

He looked down, really wishing he hadn't listened to his agent when he'd told him to leave the cigarettes at home. He was going to need one as soon as he got down to the street. "Where does any writer draw from?"

"So, there really is a Cari? Because there's been some talk that you were somehow linked with the reporter that wrote you up in that editorial piece the Times ran a month ago," she flipped through her notes. "A Rory Gilmore."

He would have lit up the cigarette right in the office if he'd had them on his person. Perhaps his agent was smarter than he looked. "Look, is this all necessary for my blurb? It's a blurb, it should say Jess Mariano, age 22 from New York City, currently resides in Philadelphia where he lives in a cramped apartment with too many guys and spends his free time smoking and publishing other people's books."

"That's not the angle the publisher was hoping to use," she flicked her pen against her legal pad.

"Just what was the angle the _publisher_ has decided to use?"

"Look, Jess," she put down her pad and readjusted her glasses. "Can I be frank?"

"Please do," he encouraged, not trying to hold back the sarcasm.

"If you want to sell books, you don't just write a book and hope someone prints it. You have to have a marketing campaign; you have to have a hook."

"A hook?"

"If this reporter that's responsible for your sudden rise to fame has any likeness to your Cari, then you need to play up that angle. You'll sell ten times more books; you'll be booked on every talk show from here to LA."

"The truth is," he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, "I never expected more than fifteen people to ever read it. I knew it got slipped into a few reporters' hands, but I never thought anything would come of it. I'd like to think my book is picking up based on its own merits, not because somebody told people to read it."

She shrugged. "That's how it works, honey. Get used to it."

He glared at her, and she stood up and walked around her desk. "I think I have enough to pull something together. You call me if you change your mind about that hook," she offered her hand and shook his firmly.

"Right," he took her card and tossed it the second he exited her office. He didn't make eye contact with her secretary, and he didn't stop moving until he got to the drug store on the corner. He paid for a pack of cigarettes—not his usual kind—and slipped one out as soon as he was back out on the street. He walked around aimlessly, waiting for the inevitable phone call.

He still wasn't calm by the time his cell phone rang, but he was feeling suitably nicotined up after two cigarettes. He pulled the phone out of his jacket pocket and answered.

"Yeah?"

"So, Mariano, how'd it go?"

"She was a whack job."

"She's a press release agent for the publisher. They're all whack jobs."

"Is there some reason she kept making me talk about the reporter?"

"The reporter?"

"From the Times."

"Ah, Gilmore. New editorial writer. She's quite the talk of the town, dating the Huntzberger heir apparent and can charm the pants off of everyone in the New York social scene."

"Goody for her. What's she got to do with my book?"

"She wrote you up, Buddy, she's your biggest fan. Your good fortune and sudden rise to fame is intertwined, like it or not. And word on the street is that you two used to know each other."

"Word on the street?"

"Is there some kind of statement you'd like to make on the subject?"

"No. I just want to go back to Philly."

He'd never talked to his agent about Rory, save for being filled in about and mailed a copy of the article she'd written that used mentioned his book. He'd been lucky that he'd had the ability to receive it at his apartment, with only his self-absorbed roommates around when he quit breathing for the duration of the article. Since then, all he'd done was pretend he didn't know this reporter or why she'd taken such a liking to his book. He hadn't had a lot of pressure about it yet, but with the way the last two conversations he'd had with people associated with pushing his book, he was going to need to stock up on the cigarettes and buy a bottle of whiskey.

"No problemo. Just one more interview, tomorrow morning, then you're free as a bird until the book release party."

"Book release party? And what interview? You said I just had to do the book jacket thing, you never said anything about an interview."

"It's not a big deal, it's just to get a little more promotion, to get word out. We want big pre-order numbers for the reprint. The rest of your time should be spent working on your next project. You get any more writing done?"

Jess sighed. "Not since you harassed me last. Look, Tom, I appreciate the whole kick in the ass mentality you have to have, but that's just not how I write. I write when I can't sleep; I write when I'm so pent up with the feeling of it I can't do anything else."

"I'll look into getting you a writing coach. In the meantime, see what you can do to be broodier, will ya?"

Jess rolled his eyes and hung up. Being back in New York made him jumpier. He was used to Philly; he was used to the feel of the town. It was slower than New York, but in his mind it was more freeing. There was less chance he'd run into anyone from his old life. There were no ex-girlfriends, no past step-fathers, no old friends that wanted to pull him back into old habits. He held onto the vices he liked and started otherwise fresh in Philadelphia; with just his haunting memories of blue eyes and a pack of cigarettes. Somehow that produced a book.

Truth was, he'd got all his ghosts down on paper the first time, and he wasn't sure he had anything left in the way of inspiration. He'd had her words in his head, the whole time, telling him he could do more. He supposed he'd wanted to prove that to her, which is why he wrote until it was done and went to deliver a copy to her in person.

She could have left it at that. She could have taken his gratitude and went on about her life with that stuffy, rich Porsche driver. It wasn't necessary for her to come back, to find him in Philly, looking so hopeful and in search of something she believed only he could provide her. Had he known it was revenge in the beginning, he wasn't sure if he would have refrained from kissing her or taken her directly upstairs and fucked her brains out.

She often had that effect on him, in fact. From the moment he first saw her, his mind had begun the duel and he still wasn't sure what the best plan of action was at any given time. He'd tried kissing her, and usually it left him longing to drag an inch of shiny, sharp metal over his wrists.

Maybe next time he saw her, he'd try the fucking option.


	2. We Need to Find a Better Place to Hide

Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: We Need to Find A Better Place to Hide

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

AN: Apparently some didn't notice the language warning in the last chapter, so I will point out that it's up there, just like it was in the last chapter. I can't seem to write Jess without a little bit of potty mouth. (shrugs)

She tapped her pen against her legal pad absent-mindedly and then checked that she'd put batteries in her tape recorder for the fifth time since she sat down.

Her interview was late, and she hated when people were late. She had a million things to do, which were now going to be abbreviated or sliced completely out of her schedule, all because of one careless person. It's not that she didn't love her job; in fact, it was the job she'd been dreaming of for quite some time. It was a feat that at her age she'd landed such a prestigious job. It was the stepping stone to much greater things in her life.

It also meant she didn't have quite as much say so in what she wrote about. She'd been promised that her own work would be evaluated and considered, but that when a story had to be written, she would be the one writing it, like it or not. She had held her tongue when her boss had barked this particular assignment to her over the phone last night—giving her very few details and no time to prepare. She had shown up on time, despite her current situation. She would have taken a few more minutes or hours to try to come up with prepared questions, but she had assumed that the next big thing in literature would have things to do and places to be.

Apparently, none of them included the New York Times editorial offices at three o'clock in the afternoon, as scheduled.

She took a deep breath in, resumed her pen bouncing, and focused on the fact that she loved her job. That everyone in her life understood how important it was, and no one would be too put out by the fact she was running late because of it. Surely Logan wouldn't care, and for sure his father knew the demands of a reporter's life. No one would even notice how late she would be after finishing this 'in depth and fresh look into a young author's life', as verbatim from her boss, going all the way back uptown to change, waiting for a cab, and making it all they way back downtown to the party being thrown in her honor. She was almost positive of it.

She was so close to calling the apartment to see if Logan could run her outfit past the building on his way when the main door opened slowly and the dark-haired man looked around the mostly empty reception area. She got a slight twinge in her abdomen, at the uncanny likeness he shared with…. Her mouth went dry as she stood up once he'd spotted her. Her tape recorder fell from her lap and hit the ground, and she bent down to retrieve it before going to work at retrieving her pen from the couch cushions.

Great start, Gilmore, she thought to herself. Next stop, Pulitzer.

When she looked up again, he was standing about five feet from her, a bemused expression on his face. He kept one hand on his carrier bag and used the other to push some hair out of his eyes.

"What?" she demanded.

Jess held up both hands in self defense. "I'm just standing here."

"What are you doing here?"

He looked around the offices, clearly wondering the same thing himself. "I think I'm late for a meeting. What are you doing here?"

"Getting stood up, apparently," she gruffed, all her belongings now getting shoved back in her large handbag. Her mother had insisted it looked way more professional than a briefcase, telling her that it was no longer the 80s, and if she insisted on a briefcase, she'd have to have shoulder pads sewn into all her blazers.

"For a three o'clock interview?" he asked, ducking his head slightly to make eye contact with her.

"How did you… no," she shook her head slightly and laughed. "You're kidding me."

"I would have been here sooner, but my agent was a little light on details, then called about an hour ago, telling me to get my ass up here," he rolled his eyes. "Guess you really do get what you pay for."

"Or pay for what you get," she offered.

"Yeah," he nodded. "So, you want to do it here?"

She blinked at him. "Uh, we could, or we could go into my office. It's not much, but it has chairs," she said lamely.

He nodded. "Lead the way."

She could feel his eyes on her as she walked down the hall, and she did her best to just put one foot in front of the other, walking at a normal pace and resume her professional demeanor. She wouldn't take out her anger on any other author had they been so blatantly late, especially one that had given her a crappy apology while explaining the confusion. She didn't need to lash out at him, just because she could tell he was put out to be here. She wouldn't be able to read any one else's body language that well.

Though the thought occurred to her that if it had been anyone else, she might not have had the advantage of knowing their work, having read it so thoroughly, or having a laundry list of questions swimming through her mind at the very mention of his name, let alone at seeing him sitting down across her desk from her.

"So, shall we just jump right in?" she clicked her recorder on and smiled at him.

"Uh, sure," he nodded.

"Great. So, I loved your book."

He nodded curtly. "So I've heard."

She frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, then thought better of her tone. "I mean, you look displeased."

He raised an eyebrow. "You did print it in a major newspaper. Did you think I forgot how to read?"

Okay, so now maybe she was justified in wanting to strangle him. "I didn't know that was going to be published. It was an audition piece."

"Huh," he nodded, smiling slightly, in that crooked way he had. Like half of him was amused, and the other half couldn't be bothered.

"What?"

He looked at her, a maniacal gleam in his eyes. "Didn't they teach you to ask more descriptive questions at Yale?"

She was not going to let him get the better of her. She'd written an exceptional article, good enough to make the Times on her first shot out, and it'd garnered her a job offer. Just because he'd written a book didn't make him superior to her.

"How was it you came to find out that your book had landed on the bestseller list?" she asked, her pen poised to write down his words, though between her ability to soak in everything he'd ever said to her and her mini-recorder, she barely needed to take notes.

"My phone wouldn't stop ringing," he shrugged. "It's rare that my phone rings so early in the day. No one I know is up that early, so I let it ring. By the time I checked my messages, I'd racked up seven offers from agents and all my buddies had called to congratulate me on the piece, and," he smiled that smile again.

"And?"

"You don't want to know," he met her eyes.

"On the contrary," she assured him.

He cleared his throat. "Fine. They wanted to know if I'd fucked the reporter and if I enjoyed it as much as she did."

Her mouth fell open, unable to form any other proper response.

"I told you."

"Look, Jess," she let out a disturbed version of a laugh, "If you don't want to take this seriously," she shook her head.

"I am. It might not have been the answer you wanted to hear, but it's the truth. Or should I just start making up answers I think will amuse you?"

"This is my job, Jess. This isn't some high school prank that you can blow off."

He smiled at her. "So, no magic tricks?"

She knew he was kidding, trying to calm her down, but as she checked her watch and realized she was never going to get a good interview out of him as unprepared as she was, she only grew more restless. What she needed was time to skim back over his book, this time with the eye of a reporter not as a bibliophile, and come up with solid questions that he couldn't bullshit his way around.

"You got a hot date or something?" he asked. He always did notice everything.

"Kind of."

He didn't need personal details, this wasn't a social call. He hadn't come to see her, she reminded herself for the millionth time; this was business.

"Like, an early bird special kind of evening?" he teased when she remained quiet.

"You do realize I'm the one that's supposed to be asking the questions, right?" she shot back.

He leaned back in his chair. "Then ask."

"Can I level with you?" she leaned forward to prop her chin on her palm, her elbows solidly positioned on the desk.

He mimicked her posture. "Please."

"It's just, my boss is kind of sadistic, and he didn't give me your name or any kind of notice, and ideally I would have been a lot more prepared and we'd be done by now," she checked her watch again. "Actually, I sort of have no choice to be done by now, because I'm already running late."

He nodded. "So, we're done here?"

She shook her head. "No. I mean, I don't have anything."

"Rory," he cocked his head to one side.

She held up her legal pad. Her blank legal pad. She stared at him with all the authority she could muster. "I have nothing, save for some inappropriate banter and a lewd comment on behalf of your friends. Unless you want me to get that gem down as a quote and write a piece about how chivalry is dead," she shook her head.

"You really believe that?" he leaned back again, as if settling in.

"What? No, I mean, it doesn't matter. My assignment is to get an in depth look at your life."

"So write one. You know the answers to most of the questions you'd end up asking anyhow."

"How do you figure that?"

His eyes softened for a minute, but in the blink of her eyes, he'd concealed whatever emotion he almost let out with a look of cool resignation. "You know my life story."

"Barely," she muttered.

"What was that?" he demanded.

"Look, I need an interview."

"And you're blowing it off for a date," he informed her.

"It's not a date!" she huffed. "I have an event."

"An event?"

She knew she wasn't going to get him to agree to give her more time without details. Jess Mariano didn't work that way.

"Huntzberger Media Corporation is throwing a party in my honor, to celebrate my new position," she pursed her lips and squared her shoulders. She felt weird flaunting her new-found status, especially knowing that her connections in the journalism world had been expedited in a way she'd never imagined when she first entered the halls of Yale, all because she was sleeping with the heir to the biggest magnate in the country. She felt worse hiding that fact and letting him think she was sitting where she was due to the power of her writing.

"Fancy," he let out a low whistle. "You wouldn't want to miss that."

"I can't," she swallowed.

"So…" he trailed off, waiting for her to fill in the rest.

"So, I propose we try this again."

"Again?" he blinked, not liking the plan.

"I need time, to prepare and come at this from an angle. Some angle, any angle," she frowned.

"Look, I have to get back to Philly tomorrow," he begged off.

She was thinking as fast as she could with him staring at her like that, like he knew her every thought and had a smart comeback for every suggestion she'd toss out at him. She could invite him back to her place, to unnerve him, but immediately she thought of Logan. If he had any sense in his body, he'd not be okay with Jess being in their home. Not that he had anything to worry about, but that didn't mean that she couldn't conjure up an image or a feeling of what it had been like to be with Jess, to be touched by him and feel wanted by him. She was surprised at the lack of effort it took, after all this time.

But this wasn't about trying to be the only one he let into his world. At least, not like she had once upon a time. Yet her apartment still didn't feel like an option.

"Can we meet tonight?" she offered, deciding that she didn't need a location just yet.

"Tonight?"

She gave him her own half smile. "I do my best work in the middle of the night, all hopped up on caffeine," she assured him.

His smile melted something in her she hadn't been aware was frozen. "I'm sure you do."

She looked down at her legal pad and swirled the tip of the pen, making long, swooping designs. "Is that a yes?"

He sighed. Clearly it wasn't his first choice of how to spend a night in New York. "What time?"

She stood up, itching to be on the subway. "Um, I'm not sure."

"Okay," he stood up as well and secured his bag back around his torso. "Where?"

"Um," she racked her brain, trying to think of a place that might give her the higher ground, or heck, even a neutral spot. This was her town, not his anymore. She wasn't sixteen and at the mercy of his….

"I know a place," he offered. "They're open all night, and they've got decent coffee. Not as good as Luke's but better than what Starbucks extorts people for. I mean, if you want," he added, a gleaning likeness to his old self. The old self that she'd found so irresistible that she'd all but lost her mind trying to learn about and be with. She reminded herself that they were both different people now.

"Sure," she shrugged. "Look, I really do have to go. I'm not sure when I can get away," she began and pulled out her new Blackberry. She wasn't used to the thing yet, but Logan had given it to her as a congratulatory gift when she got her new job, insisting it was just what she needed to keep her working life in order. Apparently, he was attached to his like a life support system, but she'd be happy just to be able to access her address book on the stupid thing.

"Here," he took the object from her hands, hit a couple of buttons and handed it back. "Just give me a call."

"Wait," she said, as he went to exit her office, staring at the address book that he'd added his name and number into. "How did you do that?"

He just smiled. "I'll see you tonight."

He was gone a moment later. Not only had she failed to get any answers, but she was left with more questions that she couldn't possibly bring herself to ask. She realized her boss probably had seen this as a nice surprise, to let her get a chance to talk to an author whose work she admired. It wasn't supposed to be an exercise of wills, or a rush of old emotions that she thought were long past buried, if not dealt with and gone.

Perhaps she'd brought it on herself, using his book as an example in her editorial piece, but nothing else had seemed quite so fitting as a foil to her thoughts, and it was obscure enough to show that she had range. She wasn't going to give them pop culture and old standbys. She was a fresh voice, one that wanted to examine every facet of the human condition.

For now, she was late, like a modern-day Cinderella, but she made one last stop at the bookstore to buy another copy of the book that the clerk assured her she was lucky to get because it was literally flying off the shelves. Her other copy was still in a box from her recent move, and she'd need a book to slip into her clutch anyhow.

She never knew when she'd get the opportunity to read at these things.


	3. Make Up Your Mind

Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: Make Up Your Mind

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

It was five past midnight and he hadn't heard a word from her. Not that staying up late was out of character for him, or that she was holding up some great plans he might have otherwise made. He was stuck in New York, however, because of her, but that wasn't the worst part of this whole ordeal.

The worst part was the waiting for her to call. He wasn't the kind to sit by the phone, hoping it would ring just to hear someone's voice. If he wanted to hear that voice, he could pick up the phone himself, or better, go see them in person. The thought of acting like some damn wallflower, sitting idly by until she decided to reward him with her attention, pissed him off, so much so that he considered not answering the phone when it did ring shortly thereafter. He didn't owe her anything. It hadn't been his fault that she didn't get what she wanted for her interview. He had shown up ready to give answers—glib though they might have been. She was the one that had no questions; or to blame for being too hesitant to ask the ones she had.

Of course, if he blew her off now, he'd have to endure another conversation, but that one would be with his agent, and he'd be throwing around terms like contractual agreements and trite phrases like holding up his end of the bargain. And then he'd pull out the big guns—asking him how the writing was going. He snapped up the phone.

"Hello?"

"It's me. Is now okay?"

No apologies. Nothing in her voice to suggest she was anything but put out.

"Yeah."

"I have a cab, I need an address," she stated, still sounding annoyed, pissed off.

"Uh," he closed his eyes, realizing he didn't have one for the café he'd intended to take her to. He rattled off the address of his hotel.

"Isn't that… The Plaza?" 

Now she sounded surprised. He had been too, when he found out where his agent had booked him for his stay. Apparently the trick to being successful was acting successful. He started to inform him that he couldn't afford it, but realized that arguing wouldn't get him very far. It never did with this guy.

"I know how to get there, but I don't know an address. Just meet me in the lobby, and we'll go together."

"Okay. Twenty minutes?"

"Fine."

He wanted to ask her how she figured out how to use that phone of hers. It had too many bells and whistles. Her cell in high school had a Hello Kitty face plate. The only features he thought a phone should ever have was numbers and the send/end buttons. He didn't need to store two hundred numbers on his phone, play music, or take pictures. When he'd told the guy at the wireless company that, he'd gotten a look like he was asking for it to cut his meat for him. He had the 'most basic' model, according to the salesman, but hers… it screamed of bells and whistles. But she was the one that was supposed to ask the questions tonight, so he simply hung up and continued to wait for her.

When she showed up, she looked like Cinderella trying to run back to beat the clock. She was glittery—her dress, her shoes, her make up—she shined. Her hair had been perfectly styled, at one point in the evening. It showed signs of surviving something now; wind or some kind of coat room moment. She stopped in the middle of the lobby, seeing him come out of the elevator. He gave her a cursory nod, and she crossed her arms, pulling her coat closed over her rather revealing dress as she waited in place.

"You all ready?" he asked, noting that she carried only a small purse.

She nodded. "Yeah. Sorry, I know it's late," she blinked and looked down.

He shrugged. "It's fine."

"I wanted to leave sooner, I planned on," she stopped mid-sentence, and he looked at her. He really looked at her. He had been sticking with general glances and the occasional moments of eye contact. She was lost in her own thoughts, distracted and frazzled. Coffee wasn't going to do it tonight.

"You sure everything's okay? Because we can do this another time," he offered.

She took a deep breath. Preparing herself. "It's fine."

He nodded and stepped up beside her, lowering his voice. "I know what you need."

She looked up at him, hope in her eyes. "What?"

"Just come on," he said, offering his arm to her. She nodded quickly, giving him a pressed smile, and linked her arm through his.

XXXX

"Um, Jess?"

He stopped to look at her. Once on the subway, she'd slipped her arm out of his and cocooned herself in her own little world, surrounded by her thoughts instead of all the freaks he was focused on around them. The subway in the middle of the night isn't where one would look to find the echelon of society. The guy in the back of the car was carrying on with several people that didn't seem to be visible to anyone else on the train, the guy in the front of the car was chewing on a glove that wasn't attached to anything but his mouth, and the two guys across from them were arguing very passionately in another language, but it was clear they were having some kind of lover's spat, during which one was repeatedly hitting the other with a rubber chicken. None of this had fazed her, but now, outside of their destination, she took pause.

"What?"

"This place," she frowned.

"Yeah?"

"It's a bar," she pointed at the sign over the door.

"Technically, it's a martini bar," he shrugged.

"I'm just not much of a drinker."

"Neither am I. But sometimes, I make exceptions. Come on, you look like you could use a drink."

She seemed to consider his words. A moment later, she nodded, and he opened the door for her, inviting her into the noise and dimly lit atmosphere. There was soft music coming from the corner, a small stage where a few guys were singing the blues. He hadn't been here in over a year, when he'd let the guys drag him around to celebrate seeing his book in print for the first time. They'd hit nearly every bar in this neighborhood, ending up here only because one of his buddies had become obsessed with following this redhead around in hopes to get her number. He didn't like the idea of any place that didn't serve beer, but he did have to admit they made a damn fine martini, and it was quiet and out of the way. A place to be out of your life, and if it turned out that she didn't need to drown her sorrows, a place where she could conduct her interview.

They ordered, then she spent a few moments scanning the room and awaiting her chocolate martini. He'd ordered a gin martini, not wanting to enjoy it enough to drink it to fast or order too many. As much as he told himself that he was only looking out for himself, he wasn't going to let anything hurt her, either. It was easier to be indifferent to her when she wasn't sitting in front of him, looking so fragile.

"So, how was your party?"

She looked at him, startled. She'd started swaying to the music, but now she sat very still and put her hands in her lap. "Fine, it was fine."

He narrowed his eyes. "Just fine? Wasn't there about a million of your icons there to celebrate your newfound status into the world of journalism?"

She nodded. "Yeah."

He leaned forward. "You're really that jaded?"

Her face softened. "No, the party itself was good. Great, even. Seymour Hersh was there."

He smiled. "Impressive."

"He said I had good style."

Their drinks arrived and he lifted his to her. "Fucking impressive."

She clinked her glass to his and took a long sip. "Yeah. Actually, it was."

"So, what took it down a notch?"

She took another long sip. "Nothing. I don't want to talk about it. How's your stay in New York?"

"Extended. I'm supposed to give this interview, and I'm trapped here until I do."

She smiled, enjoying his game. "I thought you loved New York."

"I'd rather go home. Back to my normal life."

She raised an eyebrow. "The Jess I knew would just go home."

"Yeah, well, a lot has changed."

"How so?"

"For one, if I skip out on the interview, I have to deal with my agent. Do you have an agent?"

She shook her head.

"He's a total head case. It's like having a mother, calling me, asking me how much I've written and how I'm feeling, then telling me to just get off my ass and write even if it's shit," he took a sip of his drink, the strong sting reminding him to go slow. He noticed hers was already half gone, and in another five minutes the server would be by to offer her a second. He wondered if she'd say yes or not.

She searched his face. "How is your writing going?"

He laughed. "Just peachy."

She clicked her tongue. "Don't wanna talk about it?"

He shook his head. "Nope."

She cocked her head. "What if it's one of my interview questions?"

"Is it?"

She shook her head. "No. Just wondering. I was hoping for a sneak peek."

"Why?" he took another sip.

"Because, your writing, its," she let out a deep breath and got a far-off look in her eyes. "It's so unique. I've never read anything before that was so dark, but so full of hope. And it doesn't remind me of anyone, like you were aspiring to be like any of the authors you love. It just sounds like you."

Suddenly, he wanted to grant her the interview. No sarcasm, at least, not in the way he normally used it. He wanted to let her paint the picture of him for the world to see, because she understood who he was.

"Do your interview."

"What? Now? Here?"

He shrugged. "Come on, you know you want to. I'm the hottest thing on the literary scene, and I plan on getting very reclusive. Hard to interview. I'm gonna make Salinger look like a Hilton."

She laughed. "So, this is my shot?"

"Your one and only."

She shook her head. "I'm not prepared," she admitted.

"Yes, you are. Here, hang on a sec," he got up and walked over to the bar. He conversed with the bartender, then moved back to the table to smile at her. She looked at him questioningly, but seemed amused enough to continue to play along.

"What are you doing?"

The waitress came a moment later, with a tray full of shots, limes, and a salt shaker. She unloaded the tray, told them to have fun, and walked off.

"It's a get to know you game, maybe you've played. It's called 'I Never,'" he slid a shot in front of her. "Wanna play?"

She hesitated as she looked at the shot glass. He could see she didn't think it was the smartest course of action. And then, something so ordinary happened to change her mind. Her cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse, looked at the caller ID, and shoved it back in.

"Who starts?"

He took a shot glass in front of him. "Ladies first."

She nodded. "I never wrote a book."

He shook his head, laughed at her attempt to make him drink, and took the shot, taking his time in draining the lime. "That was a cheap shot."

"Hardy-har-har," she shook her head.

He smirked. "I never met Seymour Hersh."

She narrowed her eyes and did her own shot. She grimaced when the tequila went down, and she shoved the lime in her mouth as fast as she could. He wiped his face of emotion, save for curiosity.

"Not good?"

"Shut up. It's my turn," she scolded.

"Yes, ma'am," he saluted.

"I never thought I'd see you again."

He didn't touch his shot. "I never thought I could write a book."

She took a shot. He raised an eyebrow at that. "I never learned how to drive a motorcycle."

He took a drink. "I never lived on handouts."

She frowned and took a shot. This time she seemed to linger into making the worst part of the tequila burn last. She looked guilty and sad all at once. He wasn't sure if she might walk out on him right that instant, but he was fairly sure they should stop playing. He was about to offer this option, but she met his eyes.

"I never want to get married."

He played with the salt shaker, but didn't pour any on his hand. "I never saw _Breakfast at Tiffany's_."

She took a drink. "I never eat out of community dishes at parties."

He took a drink. "I never let girls come home with me."

"I never drink this much because I have to be in charge," she said immediately.

"In charge or in control?"

"In charge. I have to make sure he gets home, and his friends get home, because they anticipate their drinking needs and can't walk in a straight line at the end of the night," she complained. "I mean, it's not like I ask much. I just wanted him to be there, on time. I was nervous, and I did it for him! I agreed to this stupid party for him, and he can't even show up on time, not to mention sober."

Jess realized he'd had too many shots when his mouth opened and the following question emerged. "The boyfriend?"

She nodded. "I mean, I'm supposed to do all these things for him, overlook all the personality flaws because he lets me live in his apartment, rent free. But you know what? Money can buy you a lot of things, but it can't make up for everything!"

He reached out and took her hand off the last shot glass. "No, it can't."

She looked at him. "I got this job because of him."

He shook his head. "No, you didn't. Seymour Hersh likes your style."

She smiled weakly. "Yeah. But if it wasn't for Logan's dad," she shook her head.

"So, maybe it would have taken a little longer, but Rory, come on. You wanted it so bad. You were gonna get there on your own."

"Maybe that's why I'm with him," she looked at Jess in panic. "I knew who his dad was; I knew it when all this started."

Jess shook his head. "That's not you."

"It didn't used to be. You aren't the only one that's changed."

He leaned in. "Who says I've changed?"

She smiled. "Look at you. You're this adult."

"So are you."

"No, but you—you're on your own. You're making your own way. No one can say that you haven't gotten where you are completely on your own merits."

He shook his head. "That's not true."

"Is that your way of telling me you slept your way to the top?"

"My book is only doing so well because of your article. If it weren't for you, I'd still be living in obscurity."

"But you still wrote a book. A book! And you make a living, and have a life. Tell me the truth—you wish I hadn't written anything about your book. You probably wish I'd never even read the thing, right?"

He hated to answer her, because his honest answer would just hurt her. She hadn't been trying to do anything but make her own way. "Rory."

She shook her head. "I should go."

She pushed back her chair and made an attempt to stand up. She stumbled on her high heels, and he jumped up to stabilize her.

"You asked."

"I won't run the article. It'll make things easier," she promised.

"You have to."

A thought struck her, immobilized her, and she grabbed hold of his elbows. "I can't go home."

"What are you talking about?"

"I yelled at him for coming in drunk! I called him a juvenile frat boy that refused to grow up. I can't go home drunk!"

He looked at her, still as shiny as she'd been earlier this evening. She was all dressed up, not for him, but it was him she was with now. If possession was nine-tenths of the law, then the boyfriend had no claims right now.

"Come back to the hotel with me."

She shook her head. "You never let girls come home with you."

He smiled. "The hotel isn't my home. I live in Philadelphia."

She blushed. "I didn't mean, I mean, I don't," she shook her head.

He leaned in. "You don't want to come back to the hotel with me?"

Her eyes widened. "Jess."

"I promise I won't take advantage of you."

He must have sounded sincere, because she got into a cab and didn't correct him when he told the cabbie there would be only one stop.


	4. I Need to Know Tonight

Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: I Need to Know, I Need to Know Tonight

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

She hadn't really fallen asleep. She'd foolishly thought that if she laid still enough for long enough, she could trick her body into enough comfort to fall into at the very least a fitful sleep. Once she saw the sun breaking through the buildings out his hotel suite's window, she could find a slip of blank piece of paper in her bag and leave him a note, thanking him for the use of his couch.

She didn't really want to check the clock again. She knew it would only tell her that at most three minutes had passed since her last vigil. Her body was literally itching to move, begging her to get up. She was never this restless at night. Normally that honor when to Logan. He moved until he literally passed out. Or maybe he just drank too much. She'd had her fair share of alcohol tonight, but apparently not enough to make her pass out. Only enough to make her agree to spend the night at her ex-boyfriend's hotel room and to dry out her mouth until it felt like she had been drinking sand instead of martinis. She refused to think about whose behavior was actually worse.

One more look at the clock over the mantel, and she gave a swift sigh of frustration. She pulled back the blanket he'd given to her before disappearing back into his bedroom and let her bare feet meet the floor. Not wanting to wake him up as well, she stumbled through the dark to the kitchenette and proceeded looking for a glass.

"Looking for something?"

His voice was groggy and his hand was in his hair when she turned in surprise. "Just a glass."

He flipped on the light over the stove, so as not to blind them both, and reached past her to the one cabinet she hadn't gotten to yet. "Here."

"Thanks," she smiled sheepishly. "I didn't mean to wake you up."

"You didn't."

"Oh?"

He shrugged. "I was writing. Then I heard you banging around out here, and I figured you were prying."

She cocked her head. "Why would I pry in the kitchen?"

"Why would you keep shoes in your stove?"

She smiled. "That wasn't me. That was my mother. I'll have you know my kitchen is only used to store food. Maybe the occasional book," she admitted.

"You know, if you'd just taken my bed, we wouldn't be up in the middle of the night talking about what you keep in your kitchen."

"I'm already intruding—I wasn't going to rob you of your bed, too."

"I've been at the desk. I sleep there more at home than I sleep in my bed anyway. Both of which are more comfortable than that couch."

"The couch was fine," she assured him. "I was just thirsty."

He opened the refrigerator and handed her the orange juice. "Want eggs?"

"Oh, you don't have to," she began.

"I'm hungry. And you're a Gilmore. Would you rather have pancakes?"

She yawned. "I have to choose?"

He rolled his eyes and began unloading ingredients from his refrigerator. "Can you at least make yourself useful?"

"If you show me where you keep the coffee, absolutely," she agreed.

"Middle of the pantry," he pointed with the carton of eggs.

"So, you cook?" she asked conversationally, not really thinking as she watched the ease with which he maneuvered around the small kitchenette.

"What did you think I was doing all that time at Luke's?"

"Making his life miserable so he'd let you off early?" she tried with hopeful sarcasm.

He smirked as he thought for a moment. "Besides that."

"I've never actually seen you cook."

"Well, I guess you're in for a treat, then."

"So, it's edible?" she continued to watch him carefully, as if he might slip some arsenic or vegetables into the mix.

He cracked another egg expertly and expelled the contents into a hot skillet. "Who do you think taught me to cook?"

"Luke?"

He nodded. "He took pity on me. He came to visit when I was about five and saw I'd been living on peanut butter and jelly for about a month. Lizzie isn't really a cook. Even when she was around, rarely was anything she ever attempted to cook edible."

"You've been cooking since you were five?"

He nodded. "And I've yet to poison anyone."

She rolled her eyes and leaned back against the counter, watching him as he worked. She could see the lean muscle of his arm flex as he slid the spatula under the first pancake and flip it up out of the pan and smoothly onto the other side. He was wearing a white t-shirt, which she assumed he'd thrown on before leaving the bedroom, and flannel pajama pants. Much more casual than her now wrinkled cocktail dress. She'd been so pleased with how she looked hours before—when she believed Logan would be on time to stand by her side. She'd bought the dress knowing he'd love it, envisioning the evening she wore it being one that was filled with him whispering softly to her how much he couldn't wait to get her alone and get her out of it. But in the end, she hadn't given him the opportunity to even whisper a single word to her tonight. His eyes had begged for forgiveness as he'd walked into the room, but she'd crossed her arms and told him that she had to go without meeting his eyes again.

"You sure you don't want to change? I have plenty of extra clothes."

She looked up at his face now, blushing a little to realize that not only had she been staring at his body, but he was reading her thoughts. "I'm fine."

"That's a pretty fancy dress. I'd hate you to spill something on it."

She shrugged. "Doesn't really matter."

He raised an eyebrow. "You look good."

She raised a hand to smooth her hair. She'd taken it down when she'd laid down, and her dress was a crumpled mess. "I do not."

He didn't argue with her; rather he scanned her body with his eyes with a hard, but appreciative look. Like he'd seen a lot of women, too many to care normally. He'd seen her before, but he always made her feel like he was seeing her with new eyes. She told herself that he was probably just curious, as she was, what had changed over the years. Though the years had only been kind to him she noticed yet again. A surge of guilt flashed through her.

"You do, too."

He simply nodded. "Wanna grab a plate?"

"Oh, yeah," she turned around, grabbing two plates and holding them out as he flipped food onto first one, then the other. "Looks amazing."

"Me or the food?" he smirked, teasing her.

She narrowed her eyes in disgust. "The food." 

"Ah. You weren't clear."

She suddenly remembered how much she hated it when he smirked like that. "Shut up and eat."

"Yes, Ma'am."

She turned and looked for a table with two chairs to sit at, and when she turned back around she saw him leaning against the counter, shoveling food into his mouth.

"What are you doing?"

"You told me to eat," he reminded after he swallowed.

"You don't sit at a table?"

"It's habit," he took a swig of orange juice. "I don't have one at home."

"So, you sleep at your desk and you eat standing up at your counter?"

"I can see how your article will be going now."

She blanched. "This isn't on the record."

He put his fork down and wiped his mouth. "Rory."

"What?"

"Something has to be on the record, and soon, because while my agent doesn't mind writing this room off as an expense night after night, I can't stay in New York indefinitely, waiting to do an interview. I have to get back to my life."

"Right," she looked down at her untouched food. Something she should have done a few hours ago as well. This was supposed to be work, not a stroll down memory lane.

"This isn't like you, being so unprepared."

"I told you, I didn't have any notice, no time to research. I would have today, but I had to get ready for this party, and," she began her list of excuses.

"Do you not want to interview me?" he cut to the chase.

"No, it's not you. Though I know you don't want to be interviewed."

He sighed. "Okay. We just have to get this over with."

She nodded hesitantly. "All right."

"What's it going to take?"

She looked down at the food he'd prepared in his hotel kitchenette, which looked like something she'd grown up eating at Luke's diner. Suddenly another wave of nostalgia hit her, and she knew that her lack of progress on this assignment had nothing to do with first-time jitters, a lack of warning, or Logan's behavior at tonight's party.

"I haven't seen you in years," she admitted.

"Yeah."

"And sometimes, when I look at you and you're just sitting there, talking to me like no time has passed," she hedged and dared a look into his eyes.

"Just say it."

"I have questions, Jess. There are things I want to know, and they're getting in the way of all the professional questions. The ones I have to ask but don't really care about the answers to."

He nodded. "So, ask."

"What?"

"Whatever you want to know."

She wasn't sure she believed him, but more than that, she wasn't sure she wanted to really know the true answers to all of these questions. She'd been able to make up her own resolutions all these years, and frankly, she was afraid she'd be more comfortable with the ones she'd postulated.

"Just one condition."

She should have seen that coming. It wasn't like him to be so open, so selflessly giving. He wanted something in return. "What?"

"It goes both ways."

It seemed too easy; after all, he'd been the one to do all the leaving without explanations in their past. "Okay."

She wasn't sure it was okay. She was fairly sure this wasn't the way to get to the real interview. But she didn't have an alternate solution, either, so she dug in.

"So, you went to California to see you dad?"

He nodded. "He came to Stars Hollow right after I found out I'd failed out."

"Wow."

"I didn't really have anywhere else to go. Luke kicked me out when I said I wouldn't go back."

"Oh. I'm …," she began, but he shook his head.

"Don't apologize. You didn't know."

"I know, but I always felt like if I'd known, I could have done something."

He shook his head. "I had to go. It didn't have anything to do with you."

"Why didn't you stay out there?"

"In California?"

She nodded.

He shrugged. "I didn't go out there looking for my dad, at least, not in the way you might think. I wasn't looking for a parent, just something that wasn't here. Someone I couldn't let down."

She bit her lip. "You never let me down, Jess."

"Yeah, I did. I promised to take you to prom, and I couldn't."

"You were going through a lot, some stupid dance is hardly," she protested.

"Tell me you weren't hurt."

"I didn't know what was going on," she refused.

"Tell me you didn't think I was the most insensitive prick on the face of the earth," he prodded.

"Fine! I really wanted to go, but more than that, I really wanted to go with you, which is why I was really upset. I could have gone, found some lame date at the last minute, but I didn't. I stayed home, watching movies and eating pizza with Mom."

"I'm sorry," his voice was sincere and he did the thing where he half made eye contact, as if waiting for her to accept his gesture. All it did was enrage her.

"No! You don't get to be sorry, not now," she said, feeling more heated than appropriate after all these years.

"Why didn't you go home tonight?" he turned the tables on her, calmly, taking her off guard.

"What?"

"Clearly you're still pissed at me for things that happened when we were eighteen," he began. "You couldn't have been happy to see me when I walked into your office yesterday. Something must be going on if you came here with me instead of going home to someone else."

"He broke a promise, that's all."

"Bigger than not taking you to prom?"

"I don't want to talk about it," she moved her eyes away from him altogether.

"He's rich?"

She looked up at him. "Why do you assume that?"

"Well, if Seymour Hersh shows up to parties thrown by his father," he began, "he's either rich or really damn talented."

"He's both," she defended, since he'd made either option sound as if it'd been dealt to him by the devil himself.

Jess simply raised an eyebrow. "So, you figure two out of three isn't bad?"

Rory crossed her arms, feeling sideswiped. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Jess shook his head. "Nothing, forget it."

"No," she demanded. "Tell me what you meant."

He looked up at her, softly again, as if feeling preemptive remorse for the words he was about to say. "Does he care about you at all?"

"Of course he does! Just because we have one misunderstanding doesn't mean--," she was cut off by his voice, louder and more confident than hers.

"I don't care how fucking pissed you got at me, no way would I let you leave a party dressed like that to meet another guy—for work or not. It's three in the morning, has he even called to see if you're okay?"

"He knows I can take care of myself. And he trusts me."

"Do you trust him?"

The look in her eyes gave her away. No matter how much she protested, her initial response was loud and clear. "We have a … very complicated relationship."

He shook his head. "It's not complicated. You either trust him or you don't; he's either there for you or he isn't."

"What do you know about any of this anyway?" she boiled over.

"What?"

"You're all talk, Jess! It must be easy to sit up there on your high horse and tell me how things are supposed to be, but where was all that when we were together? You never told me anything, let alone the truth. How are you supposed to build trust like that? And as for being there for me? What a joke," she shook her head.

"We're not talking about me."

"Let's shall," she cocked her head. "Have you ever had a functional relationship?"

His gaze challenged hers. "Define functional."

"Have you ever been with someone you loved and trusted?"

"Yes." He hadn't hesitated, and the way his eyes met hers instantaneously caused an unnerving shock through her system.

As much as the news shocked her, she didn't want to back down or show him how much it affected her. "Is that what you based the book on?"

He paused this time. "Yes."

"So, you met her in California?" she asked, feeling in her gut that it wasn't the case, but it was the only line of questioning she felt comfortable following at the given moment.

"I don't want to talk about her."

"You already shared her with the whole world, Jess. You're going to have to talk about her; no reporter in their right mind wouldn't ask."

"Yeah, but you want to know a lot more than everyone else."

She swallowed. It was true, which she hated, but there was no denying it. "You told me to ask whatever I wanted."

"I never said I'd answer."

She didn't let that comment hinder her. She was finally getting somewhere, and even though she was lying to herself thinking it was for the interview and not for her. "Is that why you left California? It didn't work out?"

"I told you, I don't want to talk about it."

"You think I can't handle you telling me all of what really happened to you?"

"The thing is, I could explain all of this to you, what really happened between when I left Stars Hollow and wrote the book, but I honestly don't think you'll be satisfied with what I say."

"Why is that?"

There was a longer silence as he thought about his answer this time, one in which she grew more and more uncomfortable in the fact he might actually reveal the identity of the woman he was so clearly in love with.

"Do you believe I loved the girl in the book?" he asked, leaning in to her.

"Does it matter what I think?" she asked nervously.

"It's just a question."

"In my personal or professional opinion?"

"Are they different?"

She took a step away from him. She couldn't trust her own reaction right now. "I should get going. Logan's going to worry if he wakes up and I'm not there."

"Rory," he sighed.

"This was a bad idea. I shouldn't have come here. I appreciate your letting me stay," she began to edge back, to protect herself.

"So, that's it?"

She nodded. "I really need to go."

"I'm going back to Philly tomorrow," he informed her, not threateningly, just matter-of-factly.

"I'll talk to my boss, see if he can assign someone else. Maybe someone can come to you or do it over the phone," she offered.

"You're just giving up?"

She was desperate to flee at this point. As much as they'd talked, there was too much unsaid between them and too much she had come to accept should remain unspoken between them over the years. Hearing him say the book was inspired by some other woman would be too hard to hear, but hearing she was the one that his tragic hero worshipped so much would be harder still. She needed to go back to her life, the one that might be frustrating at times, but was tangible—something she'd never been able to say for her relationship with Jess.

"Jess, please."

"I guess you really have changed," was all he said before walking to the main door and waiting for her to gather her bag. She didn't look at him as she stood in the doorway, stopping just shy of putting her designer shoe over the threshold into the well-lit hallway.

"I'm glad you liked it," he said, causing her to look up at him wide-eyed.

She smiled softly. "I loved it."

He just nodded and watched as she walked down the hall. She didn't look back, but she knew he was watching her as she didn't hear the soft click of his door shutting until she'd stepped onto the elevator that would take her down the to lobby and back to the life she'd been on track for before she read Jess' book.


	5. Patience, My Dear

Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: Patience, My Dear

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

Jess had left New York as soon as he could manage. It'd taken telling a few white lies to his agent about the non-existent interview that he'd had with a certain brunette reporter. He couldn't exactly tell him the truth; who would believe that said reporter, a.k.a. his ex-girlfriend, would have gone drinking with him, followed him to his apartment, and that nothing happened? Jess believed it, but then he'd experienced a lot of moments with Rory that were tense, uncomfortable, and left them both on the verge of doing or saying too much. They were the definition of an anti-climax.

He relished in being back to his regular life. The morning he woke up in his own bed, he wasted some time ignoring a few phone messages, reading the entire newspaper from cover to cover, and drinking milk right from the carton. This last action drew protests from Charlie, the neatest of his roommates, which only meant that he poured his drinks into glasses, but he didn't care if the dirty glasses sat in the sink for a month.

Jess turned to face him, still holding the jug in his hand, a slight ring of white on his upper lip. "What?"

"I said that's disgusting. We don't need your germs."

Jess pointed to the mountain of dishes that heaped over the sink. "I'm not the one that has to resort to the 2am crowd at Tranny Manny's for some action. Are you waiting for the dishes to grow something akin to arms so that they'll wash themselves?"

"We're swamped downstairs. We haven't had time for housework. We got five more titles coming out next March, do you have any idea what that means?"

Jess shrugged. "Means we'll have enough extra income to hire an office assistant, or maybe a maid would be more worth our while."

"Can we get a French maid?" Jack came in from down the hall, yawning.

"You're just getting up?" Jess took another swig of his liquid breakfast.

"Just going to bed. Some of us have been working, not taking extended vacations paid for by fancy agents."

Jess rolled his eyes. "Geez. You know, you're getting a bigger royalty check than I am out of this book deal of mine."

"Does that mean we'll have enough for an office assistant and a French maid?" Charlie asked.

"So, what was the hold up in New York? Meet a girl?" Jack sat down on the couch that most often doubled as a transitory camp for anyone too tired to make it to their own bed.

Jess sucked in air through his teeth, rolled his eyes, and grabbed an apple. "I'll be downstairs. If my agent calls, tell him I'm busy."

Jack and Charlie shared a look, but neither got another word out before Jess headed to the stairs, taking them two at a time to bury himself in work that didn't involve being inside his own head or answering questions about his personal life. Recently all that had revolved around Rory, and he wasn't keen on allowing it to mess with his head. Until she'd written the now infamous article, he believed that by writing his book he finally put her behind him. He was done. He refused to be pulled into her melodrama of a relationship or used to advance her career. That hadn't been what their relationship was about, and he had come to grips with what they'd been. He saw no reason to tear apart those memories or try to make it more than it was.

Hours passed while Jess put his focus into the press' most pertinent project at the moment, qualified in their small firm as the one closest to a promised deadline. He didn't notice the need to stop working until his stomach growled, at which time he jogged upstairs to make himself a sandwich. He had a half-eaten ham and Swiss on rye in one hand and used the other to carry a soda and a banana, heading right back to his workstation when he heard one of his co-workers call out for his attention.

"Jess, visitor," was all he said, but it was enough to halt him in place. Looking at her across the room was surreal. This was the one place that she didn't belong in his life; the present. He had found that out in New York. This was his real life, not one in which he dreamed or wrote of, and it took him longer than it should have to reconcile the two.

She didn't wait for him to respond before she made her way to where he stood, still holding the remnants of his lunch. He looked down at his arms and held the fruit toward her in offering.

"Banana?"

"Um, no, thanks," she frowned. "Is this a bad time?"

She was dressed in a business suit, similar to what she'd worn for their first unsuccessful interview. Smart, but not stuffy. She had the same look in her eyes as she had that first day as well—survival.

"As a matter of fact, it is."

She arched a brow. "Funny, because according to your agent, you were free."

He let out a sigh. "No one cleared--," he began.

"Maybe you should learn to check your messages. You'll find at least one from him, and two from me. One, asking if it was alright, and another confirming the appointment after I spoke with your representation."

It was all so… clinical. She was sticking to her credentials like a life raft in a hurricane. He could make it much stormier, which she knew too well. She also knew that this would be a surprise attack and figured she would have the upper hand. He let his gaze go lax and gave her a non-committal shrug.

"You can understand why I didn't think it was necessary, after what happened in New York," he tossed off easily, sitting down on his chair and freeing his hands of everything but his sandwich. He took a bigger bite than normal and waited for her to regain her composure.

"Look," she clicked her manicured nails against her oversized handbag. "I came all this way, I'm fully prepared, so the interview shouldn't take all that long, but if you're really so busy, name the time and I'll come back."

"What happened to the phone interview? Wouldn't it be easier; for you I mean?"

He was doing his best to undermine her, if only to mask how much it unnerved him to see her here, where he lived and worked, looking like she owned the place. He could tell that she'd made up with the boyfriend. The rich, arrogant boyfriend that hated him on principle, which was the only thing they shared. He wondered if the blonde prick from Yale knew that it had been Jess' pep talk had driven her all the way into his clutches; if he was smart enough to figure out that what had made her need a bolstering of self confidence was the time she'd spent in his hotel room, spending time trying to recapture the past.

"Should we do it here or would upstairs be better?" she took her bag off her shoulder and pulled a chair up to the other side of his desk. She pulled out a small tape recorder, a legal pad, and a pen before looking up at him expectantly.

He took a swig of his soda and decided that if she was going to continue to play the part of the detached reporter, he would be a willing interviewee. If she could kill him with her polite demeanor, something she used as a shield to keep him at bay, then he could inflict details on her. He'd done it before after all, and while he wouldn't say it was easy, it wasn't exactly going against his nature, either.

"Okay, Reporter Lady, do your worst," he took another bite of his sandwich. "Do you want something to drink?" he offered, through his mouthful.

"No thanks, I'm fine," she flickered her gaze to him momentarily before returning to her overly organized notes. "So, Jess, it's very clear that you had a great inspiration for your novel."

"It takes a level of motivation to write a novel, yes," he nodded, seeing his heroine in his head; her hair loose and flowing across her shoulders, preferring that vision of her much more than the restrained version of her that sat across the desk at the moment.

"Your heroine, Carissa, she's a very unique creation. You've managed to make her this dichotomy of strength and fragility. She wasn't afraid of anything, but she had no idea the limitlessness of her capabilities at the same time."

He couldn't help but be pleased that the way he saw her came across so clearly in print. By that very definition, he knew she couldn't see herself in the pages. "That's a very apt description."

She scribbled something on her notebook. "Most authors take one of two tactics when they create such a vivid character. Either they use themselves as a base, changing some major factor of their personality—such as their gender—or they are telling a fictionalized account of a real person, changing only enough to make it a stunning similarity. Making a socialite a pauper, or giving someone of average appearance some great, striking physical characteristic. Which was the case with Carissa?"

He smiled. "I honestly didn't change that much. In fact, she could probably sue me for libel."

She nodded and scribbled some more. "This woman didn't mind you sharing such intimate details about her like that?"

He wasn't going to tell her that some of the most revealing facts were ones that he had imagined, spurred on in his imagination from real life moments. She'd shifted in her seat when he admitted that the woman from his imagination had been real. She'd been hoping against that truth, but still she persisted.

"She hasn't hired a lawyer or anything to my knowledge," he smirked.

"Was it hard not to turn it into a run-of-the-mill love story?" she hammered on.

"It was never about happily ever after, if that's what you mean."

"It's a common trap, actually. Even if that wasn't the original intent of the author, to tie it up with a happy ending is tempting, not only for them to change what they couldn't change in real life, but to make their readers happy."

"Ah, but you're implying that the story ends where the book does. Just because they didn't end up together doesn't mean their story is any less than it is."

She uncrossed her legs and tucked her right ankle behind the left. She looked like she wished she had something else to distract her, so she didn't have to look him in the eyes.

"Just because two people aren't physically together anymore, that doesn't mean that what they had, what they experienced together, is over. Once you go through certain things with someone," he paused, noting that she wasn't just listening to his response, but rather trying to feel it. He took a pause after he broke off, as if he was searching for the right word instead of extending her agony. "They become a part of one another."

He saw the way she swallowed his words. If he wanted to make her sorry for showing up as this other man's version of herself, it was well in his grasp. The longer it took her to get another question out, the more affected she was—her reaction time to pull herself together after his words washed over her, or perhaps sunk in a little too deeply, would only lengthen.

"The setting is ambiguous," she seemed to force her lips to form the words. "Well defined within their world, but clearly fictitious in its origins. Despite the fact that there was a big city around them, the neighborhood it was set it made it feel as safe and familiar as a small town. Was there a reason for that?"

"It was the nature of the people. It's a microcosm of any large city; in fact, I've lived in small towns and major metropolitan areas, but no matter where you are, there are local characters, people who almost never leave the confines of certain dividing lines. You can experience small town life anywhere there is a real sense of community."

She nodded and took more notes. "Hence the title of your book?"

Jess shrugged. "I didn't even pick that title."

She tipped her head to one side. "Who did?" 

He pointed across the room, where two of his co-workers were arguing over the font and page layout for a book of local photography. "And they say you're only as strong as your weakest link," he muttered.

"How did they happen upon your book?"

"I imagine they finally opened their mail. I'd actually forgotten I'd sent it here. I sent about fifteen queries out. I got fourteen rejections from the big houses, you know the ones that have unpaid interns read two paragraphs before they tell you to keep your minimum wage job."

She could handle that answer. "Or in your case, three minimum wage jobs."

She was attempting to breed familiarity. His skin prickled at the sound of her voice. It was time to remind her that walking into his life didn't make up for time spent apart. He wasn't the same guy she'd known once upon a time. "Anyhow, now that I work here, I realize that it was just four guys, piled under mountains of manuscripts. I think the reason they hired me was that I read about five times faster than any of the rest of them do."

"So, is this your happily ever after? What can the public expect from you next?"

"My agent keeps bugging me to write more. That's the thing about writing a well-received novel, even if it takes a while to become that way. Someone is going to try to capitalize on the fact that if you did it once and statistically you could do it again. Which is why I have a newfound respect for Harper Lee."

"So, no stops by Oprah's couch to jump on and off the bestseller lists for the next year or so?"

She definitely knew better than that. She was teasing him. "Let's just say if I find myself as inspired as I was before, I'll write. If not, I have a life here."

She wanted to encourage his writing, to tell him how much she believed in him. He could see it in her eyes. She'd done it so often in the past, when he was realistic instead of idealistic. All she needed to do was look down at her clothes to remind herself that she was no longer the girl that played the part of his cheerleader.

"So, is that all? Because I really do have a lot of work to do, no matter what my agent promised."

"No, that's about it. Just one other thing, really."

He looked up. "What's that?"

"Well, it's just, when I talked to your agent, I asked him a few questions, merely background information, things I didn't want to have to bother you with," she rambled quickly.

"And?"

"And he bet me a hundred bucks that I couldn't get you to reveal the name of the real Carissa."

"Sounds like a sucker's bet."

Her eyes lit up. "So you'll tell me?"

"I didn't say he was the sucker," he finished off his sandwich, brushing the crumbs off his lap. "I didn't pick his name out of a hat."

"I'm not going to print it—I don't actually want you to get sued," she smiled, doing her best to charm him. She didn't need to sugarcoat anything to attract his favor. It was just her assumption that his memories and base reactions to her had faded with time. It took muscle control to sit inches from her, pretending not to care at all.

"Then you don't need it anyhow."

"Jess," she sighed. He didn't have to look at her to know that her eyes had widened and her lips were pouted together. Not overtly, just enough to have an effect on him if he were to look at her. Was it better to turn to stone or melt into a puddle on the floor?

"She deserves her privacy; something I haven't given away already."

"If you wanted to protect her from the world, you wouldn't have written such an eloquent, sure to be reprinted billions of times book about her."

"I never imagined," he took a breath, trying to select words so she'd understand. "I wrote this for me. So when I'm 85 and can't remember it on my own, I can read it and remember that there was a time in my life where I was free."

She looked down at her notebook, but her pen didn't move. "You really loved her."

He didn't blink. "I thought that was fairly well outlined in the book."

"One more question?"

He sighed. "Why not?"

"Your book ends with him leaving. In your mind, why did she let him go?"

"Because she wasn't as selfish as he was."

She made another note in her notebook, turned off her recorder and stood up. He stood as well, and they stood there unsure as to what was a proper parting. Shaking hands seemed too pedestrian, but putting their bodies in closer contact wasn't a good idea either. She broke the ice.

"She probably still loves you, you know. You don't have a tendency to romanticize things, and even through your eyes it was clear she wanted to be with you."

He shrugged, hoping that the desire to see if she still loved him wasn't showing in his eyes. It would be so easy to grab her and kiss her and find out. Even if she could manage to keep her eyes guarded, her kiss always gave her away. "I'm not the only one that's moved on. She's happy. And as soon as this media storm is over, I will be too."

Her back stiffened. "Well. The article should be done soon. It's set to run next Friday."

He nodded. "Try not to stir up too much interest, will ya?"

She cracked a soft smile. Almost the smile that he remembered. He could almost see her in jeans and her bulky blue jacket, walking around in their snow globe of a town and snuggling under his arm for warmth. "I should get going."

He nodded. She didn't need him to tell her that she didn't belong here. She belonged in New York, in the penthouse apartment that her boyfriend owned, taking meetings and tracking stories. Her life was in the big time, not in the small little world he'd made for himself. He never planned on making room for her.

He walked her out the door and to her car. She was still a small town girl, after all, and he couldn't imagine she ever risked much safety climbing in and out of hired cars. She packed her bags into the back of her car and shut the door.

Once again, they just stood there, appraising one another. He raked his bottom lip with his teeth and rolled his eyes. "What?"

"I'm sorry about last time," she said genuinely.

"Don't worry about it."

She shook her head. "I'm still sorry."

"Okay."

"Do you think," she bit her lip hesitantly.

He cocked his head, not sure where she was going with this. "What do you want, Rory?"

"Do you think we could ever be friends?"

He'd never intended to be her friend. He had made a decision, long ago, that if he couldn't be there for her in all the ways he wanted to be, it was best to remove himself from her life entirely. Not to make things easier on her, but because he was selfish and hated the pain involved in watching idly by.

"Friends?"

She nodded. "You know, sending Christmas cards, keeping the other up to date when we do something major, like write a book. Have an occasional dinner."

"I don't send Christmas cards."

"I do."

He let out a sigh. "It could take some time."

"I've got time."

It wasn't that he didn't believe this was what she wanted. He just wasn't sure he could deal with all it entailed, being her friend. The shoulder that she cried on when things went bad and not getting to celebrate with her as much as the boyfriend did when things were going great. It was easier not to know any of it. She broke his thoughts again.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"About the book. Me, of all people," she shook her head sadly. Did she know? He was fairly certain she believed Carissa to be some woman that came after her; a woman she would never run into face to face on the street, let alone see when she looked into the mirror. "That's what we shared, Jess."

The hurt in her eyes was enough to make him want to give a full confession. "Rory," he began warily.

"I always knew you had that in you, and you had to know I'd stumble upon it some time. I just thought you would have told me yourself that you got a book published."

His sweat turned cold with relief, and he smiled. "I guess we could work on the friend thing."

Her smile brightened. "That's all I'm asking for."

"I'm not promising much."

"Understood."

"Okay, then."

"So," she looked back to her car.

"I have a lot of work to do."

"Me too. But, I'll call you. Or you can call me the next time you have to be in New York. We could have lunch or something."

"Sure," he said, not really believing it would happen. He didn't believe either of them was ready for this step. He wasn't sure they would ever be ready. But as much as he wanted to keep her away, he wanted to let her think that he wanted the same things she did. He wanted her to be happy, when it came down to it. No one was ever happy while living in the past.

"Great," she touched his elbow lightly and walked around to get into her car. "Bye, Jess."

"Bye, Rory," he said, knowing full well the traps that came along with not telling her goodbye.

He watched her drive away, feeling how his nerves had been frayed from trying to keep his emotions in check during her visit. He went back upstairs, intent on burying himself in working on someone else's book to submerge his heroine back into his subconscious.


	6. We Could Spend A Lifetime Waiting Here

Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: We Could Spend A Lifetime Waiting Here

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

She checked her watch for the fifth time in the last half hour. The watch face glittered up at her, the diamonds catching the light, but as beautiful as it was the timepiece only served to remind her that she was allowing herself to be bought.

It'd started small. Apologies in conjunction with lingering kisses and hours spent in bed. Books and coffee and donuts delivered to her doorstep. All things she loved as much as she thought she was falling in love with him. As time went on, the offerings became more about a higher price tag and less about her interest in owning the objects. She hoped she wouldn't stick around for the cars and houses, and she admonished herself for accepting trips and jewelry already. These things weren't what she wanted from him.

What she wanted was her boyfriend, but that had always seemed like too much to ask of him. Sure, he promised his devotion and attention, over and over again. She believed, over time, that there were not even any other women. But that didn't make him a faithful boyfriend.

"Rory, how lovely to see you," a woman she barely recognized came up and air-kissed her cheek. She responded in kind, though hesitantly. "Where is Logan this evening?"

"Oh, he's around here somewhere. He went off in search of a refill," she lied smoothly. She'd gotten used to covering for him at these things. He'd come in, hopefully more sober than drunk, though by the time he arrived at these events everyone else was usually too tipsy to care, except for her. She never had understood why so many in the literary world took so easily to the drink—it was something Jess had always understood and Logan had taken as a birthright.

"How lovely," the nameless woman then drifted off like they always do, into the crowd to see and be seen. It was the only reason to come to these parties, apparently. She used to think they sounded so glamorous, and that Logan had simply become jaded and oblivious to the opportunities over his lifetime, but hanging out with a group of drunken namedroppers got old after a while—faster if the only person you wanted to see couldn't show up on time. Hell, she'd take fashionably late.

She must have had one too many cocktails while she waited and made the obligatory rounds, because she could feel the heat of impending tears. Her eyes were already stinging. She downed what was left of her drink, placed it on a waiter's tray, and headed off to find a safe place to vent her frustrations and possibly leave a strongly worded text on his phone.

She ducked into the coat check to find her wrap and purse. She slipped her phone out and checked the messages. She had one text, from her mother, asking if she remembered the name of the teacher from her elementary school with the glass eye. With a sigh, she placed the phone back into her purse, message unanswered. She leaned back against the wall, behind the coats, and closed her eyes. She let the tears start to fall and wished that she were anywhere else.

She didn't hear anyone else come in—she would have wiped the tears and mascara streaks away if she had. She probably also wouldn't have been muttering to herself about how she should just leave, and how it would serve him right to show up and have to worry about where she had gone for once.

"You're going?"

She opened her watery eyes to see Jess Mariano standing inches away from her. The look in his eyes wasn't that of pity, but it certainly hinted of concern. She supposed that was okay; they had decided to try to be friends after all. It had been her idea, but with deadlines and trying to ride the Logan Huntzberger roller coaster, she'd not exactly had time for her existing friends, let alone trying to cultivate new ones with ex-boyfriends. Her track record wasn't so good in that department anyhow.

"Um, yeah. Maybe. I'm not sure yet."

"Are you here alone?" he asked, taking a step closer. Was that hope in his eyes? She shoved the thought away. She shouldn't be here alone. And she shouldn't be crying in the coat check about her pathetic love life, either.

"Apparently," she said, unable to mask the hurt and annoyance in her voice.

He took another step closer. She could smell the light application of cologne he'd used—the same one he'd worn so many years ago. It made her remember snippets of other memories from years past. It occurred to her that maybe she shouldn't be here alone with him in her current state—tipsy and upset with her boyfriend. They'd never been able to be very good friends, after all. There were only two things they were good at, and he didn't look like he was in the mood to fight with her.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he offered, his tone light but his voice thick.

She gave him a wary look. "As friends?"

He shrugged. "That's what you wanted, right?"

She sighed. "I don't really want to talk about him."

"Okay. So, I read the article."

Her eyes met his. "And?"

He shook his head. "You were entirely too nice. I didn't come off as a jackass at all."

She rolled her eyes. "I thought it was fairly unbiased, considering."

"Considering what?" he asked, his intense gaze fixed through her.

"Jess," she shook her head and somehow lost her balance. She reached out behind her and tried to hold the wall, but his arms were suddenly around her waist, supporting her.

Her head instinctively rested against his shoulder, her cheek turned in toward his chest. He kept his arms around her, not saying a word. She let a few tears fall, and then wiped them away with her fingertips before pulling back.

"I'm sorry. I must have lost count of my drinks before," she looked down at her shoes. Another gift from Logan. Nothing she ever would have been able to afford on her own.

"Drowning your sorrows?" he asked, but didn't move away. She wondered if he anticipated her taking another spill or if he simply couldn't resist. It'd been a really long time since she'd stood this close to him, since she'd felt his hands on her. She hated that she enjoyed the sensation so much.

"I didn't mean to. I've been here a while."

"I know."

"I'm surprised you're here. I thought you were going to start that life of solitude thing."

He shrugged again. "My agent didn't give me much choice."

"It's not like you, to listen to anyone else."

He cocked his head. "It's a necessary evil."

"Better than unnecessary evils, I suppose," she let her eyes flicker to his mouth momentarily, but she wasn't fast enough. He'd caught her. He gave her a look so familiar that she wondered if she were dreaming.

"Are those so bad?" he asked.

She reached out with both hands, sinking her fingers into his thick, black hair as her lips crushed against his. Every kiss with Jess Mariano was always the same for her—the same as the first kiss she'd ever given him. Even when they were together, each kiss had always felt illicit somehow. Feeling his lips against her, and inevitably his tongue parting her lips, made her feel out of control and desired. Those were the two things that she hadn't felt in too long.

They parted, both breathing a bit more labored. She didn't open her eyes, but she imagined he hadn't either. She hoped that he was just as taken off guard by her actions as she was.

"You're not going to apologize and run away, are you?"

She had no choice but to open her eyes now. "I should."

"Damn it, Rory," his hands grasped her arms at the shoulders. She wondered if he wanted to shake her. She couldn't blame him.

"I know. I'm sorry. It's not fair to you."

"Don't make this about me. You don't care what this is to me."

She gripped his elbows. "No, I do care about you, Jess."

"Because you want to be friends?" he asked, his tone laden with sarcasm.

She looked up at the ceiling, tears giving her no warning before they fell this time. "I'm a horrible person. I'm using you of all people to get back at Logan, and he doesn't even care that I'm mad at him," she explained.

"Rory," he touched her cheek gently, as if she might break. "You're not a horrible person."

"Everything is so messed up. I should be celebrating tonight."

He stroked her cheek, having wiped away the tears and now just giving her the kind of comfort that should have been given by someone else. But Logan wasn't here—Jess was. Jess was standing in front of her, making her feel everything that she wanted; she'd wanted them so long.

"How badly do you want to get back at him?" he asked, making her dizzy again.

"Jess," she breathed and looked into his eyes. "I can't ask you to do that. I've disrupted your life enough as it is."

His hand brushed down her neck. "What are friends for?"

She put one hand on his chest. His heart was beating as hard and fast as hers was, despite his cool exterior. "What are you saying?"

"I told you, I don't send Christmas cards," he kissed the corner of her mouth. "And after everything we've put each other through," his nose grazed her cheek, "I don't think we can be friends."

"Oh," was all she could say.

"But I can do this for you, if you want," he kissed her hard, taking her off guard by pressing her back against the back wall. Her mouth opened against his, and he lifted her off the ground. She turned her head to the side and his lips continued on to her neck, not waiting for permission to do more. She gripped his shoulders and gasped.

She was on her feet moments later, and his head was resting on her shoulder. Her breath was heavy in his ear, and she was terrified to speak. She knew she had to tell him that despite how incredible it felt, she couldn't allow this to continue. It had to be a one-time mistake.

"Rory," he prodded.

"Jess, don't make me say it."

"I don't want to make you do anything. I'm not asking you to choose him or me. I'm not asking you for anything."

"So, what, then?" she blinked. She couldn't process any kind of thoughts, not with him still soaking up her air, when all she could breathe was him.

"If I thought you were happy with this guy," he raised an eyebrow, "and if you tell me to fuck off and go back to Philly, I will. But there was always something so… unfinished with us."

"You want to finish things?" she tried to grasp this proposal.

He smirked. "Think of it as tying up loose ends."

"It's a bad idea," she bit her lip, hoping to keep it away from his.

He looked at her, his eyes filled with pain and longing. "We always were. It never stopped us before."

"Jess," she leaned forward and kissed him softly. "This could get so complicated," she began, the logistics of carrying on an affair behind Logan's back while juggling a full work schedule and all the other things that made up her life calculating in her brain.

"No," he shook his head. "That's the best part. You and I, it's so simple, don't you see that?"

She frowned. "I would never say that about us."

His face lightened, if just a little. "But you already did. It's in the blurb they reprinted on the new book jacket."

Her mouth dropped open and her heart dropped in her chest. "It was… us?"

He just nodded. He'd already said so much already.

"I… I couldn't… see," she shook her head, unable to believe that story that she'd loved so much had been about her. "Tragically simple, right?"

"Tell me to go," he urged.

"Jess," she pleaded and closed her eyes. "I…." She needed an answer, but the only one she could come up with was wrong, so very wrong. She could stay in this place forever, and never come up with a better option. Telling him to go would leave her raw, in pain on both sides. Asking him to do this would tether her to two sides of the same coin—an unavailable man that wanted to be with her, and an available man that could never be with her. In that instant, her heart made up her mind.

"Do you have a hotel room for the night?" she opened her eyes and searched his.

His eyes softened at the defeat of her better judgment. She wasn't sure he was getting his way, or if they'd both signed on for a living nightmare. But he took her hand, she grabbed her personal effects, and they hailed a cab, all before she could find out just exactly how late her date would be that night.


	7. Maybe This Time

Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: Maybe This Time

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

He looked down at her, her bare back reflecting the moonlight that poured in through his fortieth-floor window. The illumination gave the effect that she was glowing, and he wondered if some of that illusion was due to his effect on her.

Jess wasn't sure if he'd worn down her resolve or if she'd wanted this all along-to be here, sharing his bed. He liked to think he held some of the cards in this stacked deck, but honestly this woman had powers over him that he likened to what an open flame did to moths. She shouldn't be lying next to him; she should be in her apartment uptown, waiting for her rich, if not thoughtless, boyfriend to finally come and warm her up.

But in his bed, she was too hot for covers. The sheets were slung haphazardly over their legs, from having been tangled and kicked in the throes of passion. He should probably pull them up over her, though, as he knew the sweat would eventually cause her to chill as she slept. His sleep would wait, however, as he watched the rise and fall of her chest, the way her hair cascaded over one shoulder, lapping gently over his waist.

He knew then, as he sat in exhausted silence next to her, that he'd made a mistake that would end him.

Jess was never going to get what he wanted—at least not when it came to this woman. He'd accustomed himself long ago to the idea that when it came to her, he had to take what he could get and run. He didn't look back, he couldn't wonder why, and he for damn sure couldn't let this happen again. He'd caught himself trying to memorize her lines, her shadows, her sounds, and her touch. God, her touch. There was definitely something to be said for not knowing what he was missing. Knowing now; he had no idea how to tackle trying to forget that kind of intimacy.

"Hey," she said softly, causing him to seek out her face in the semi-darkness. "What's wrong?"

"Rory," he breathed. He closed his eyes. Her big blue eyes were piercing him, even in the dark, skewering him to the headboard that supported him.

She gathered the sheet around her torso as she slid up to sit next to him. Her hand slipped onto his thigh, and he took her hand in his and held her at a safe distance.

"You should go."

"Jess. I don't understand," she froze. "I thought," she began, but he put a finger up to quiet her. He pressed his digit against her soft lips, the same lips that had just grazed his body and had the ability to make him forget everything but her name. It all came flooding back then.

"You weren't thinking, Rory. For once, you weren't thinking."

"Shut up, Jess," she said, her voice hard. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

She was full of surprises. He sat back, acquiescing to argue his point of view after she unloaded her own wrath on him. He knew she had a lot of anger built up in her; she'd been too rough, too fierce, just a short while ago. Her kisses weren't just lustful, they were nearly violent. She stole his breath, she bruised his skin, and she was inches away from doing far worse damage, though not physical in nature.

"I've thought about this, Jess. God, you had me thinking about this since I was seventeen years old. Do you know how often, I mean, it's embarrassing—how long after you ran out of my life, not once but twice, I still imagined what it would be like? I don't think I ever wanted anything so much, and I know nothing ever terrified me that much. And now you dare to tell me I had no idea what I was doing, like I'm just some groupie that read your book and wanted a piece of the man of the minute—some mindless idiot that got talked into your bed! I'm here because I wanted," she closed her eyes and shook her head bitterly.

"You wanted what, Rory?" he pressed. No sense in backing off now. They were too deep now. Too mired, too completely past pretending that nothing they had been through meant anything out here in the real world.

"I wanted what you owed me!" she yelled at him.

He cocked his head. "What the hell does that mean? I didn't owe you anything, other than apology for upsetting your delicate sensibilities, maybe," he said, angry at the accusation, though he was interested in her answer.

"Never mind. You're right, I should just go. This was never going to be anything other than a mistake," she said, tears already forming in her eyes. He saw what he guessed was regret, maybe, but there was something else. She wanted him to stop her. He held his muscles still, taut and hard, willing his mind to overcome the rest of his body. It would be so easy, effortless really, to just reach out and touch her. Grab her. Bring her back down to the mattress and erase the next two hours, making her cry out without tears.

"I can't do it, Rory. I'm not going to beg you to stay. Hell, I'm not even going to stay. We're not seventeen anymore. I'm not the screwed up kid that ran away from his whole life. My life is in Philly, and you don't belong there. What are you going to do, tell your heir to the media empire that you fucked me in my hotel room and end your career faster than if you got caught plagiarizing?"

"No. You can't sit there and pretend that I'm the irrational one here. You wrote that book, Jess. Clearly you didn't stop thinking about me once you left town. The way you wrote them, us," she said, looking into his eyes as she sat down on the bed, her knees pressing into his.

"It's fiction, Rory," he managed, causing a look of anger to flash through her stormy blue eyes. "Based on events that happened a long time ago. My book isn't worth destroying your life."

"So you're running away again? You're going back to Philly to live in obscurity, and publish other people's books instead of your own?"

He leaned in, grabbing her arms and pulling her close to him. "I'm not running from anything. Don't make this about me, because it's not. You're mad at your boyfriend and you're freaked out about how you achieved your success. What we did tonight, maybe we could pass it off as closure, but I'm not your solution. All you can get from pursuing this is more problems. Go home, Rory," he said, letting her go and leaning back against the headboard once again.

"Closure," she shook her head bitterly. "That's what this was," she said, her tone off in a way he couldn't place. He met her gaze, but said nothing. He was standing firm.

"You were just curious," she said slowly. "Research, perhaps," she intonated like a lawyer. "You just wanted to see what it was like to finally get the girl?"

"It's not a problem I've ever had," he defended. She knew it, and he knew she knew it. It was something that ate at her in the past, knowing that she'd been different, though he assured her it was in the best of ways. It never got them what they wanted, though, her being special. Sometimes being special was unsatisfying, frustrating—he'd seen it in her eyes as well as experiencing the pain of trying to honor what he felt for her.

"This girl," she reiterated. "Are you sure you have everything you need?" she asked, her tone now teasing. She let the sheet drop from her hand, and it slipped down her body, revealing smooth curves of alabaster skin as it sank to the floor.

He closed his eyes hard, but it was too late. The image of her body had burned in his mind, like he'd stared directly into the sun. He opened his eyes again to see her, now leaning up to crawl over him, her body achingly close. Her open palm rested on his chest.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked.

"I'm not a virgin anymore, Jess. You're right, we're not seventeen. And this isn't about our curiosity, either. What happened between us," she was now face-to-face with him, her nose brushing his cheek, "you can't tell me that wasn't real."

He kissed her, hard, flipping her back onto the mattress. He turned off all the voices that told him that it was a very bad idea to prolong this situation. If she wanted to play this game, he would give her a run for her money. He was only spurred on by her moans, his mouth and hands working in tandem to not just silence her, but to silence the whole world.

"Are you sure," he asked, his words heavy in her ear. His voice wasn't loud, but it was deep and measured.

She reached up and put both hands on his face, her fingers soft at his cheekbones. "Please don't stop now. Even if you don't need this. Please?"

Her words stilled him. He moved his hands up to hers, taking them in his palms, interlacing their fingers, and moving one to his lips. He kissed the back of her hand while looking into her eyes. "Okay," he said at last, not knowing what he was agreeing to. All he knew was that no matter their reasons, despite the fact that both of them knew that on some level it was bound to be disastrous, it was what he had to do. At their very core, that's all they had ever done. All they knew with one another was crashing together or ripping each other apart. He just wished, for once, that they could find a way to do one without the other.

XXXX

Jess tried to ignore the vibrating sound as he listened to the voice coming out of his cell phone. Normally he put the damn thing on speakerphone and half listened while he got real work done, but he didn't have the guts to wake Rory, who was still passed out in his bed. She was completely vulnerable—relaxed, spread out over more than half his bed. He'd had the thought when he woke up, chilled, that he'd always pegged her for a blanket hog. It also unnerved him—it was one of those personal moments that they'd managed to avoid so well over the years. He didn't want to learn anything else about her that he'd have to push out of his mind in order to move on from this night.

As her phone vibrated against the wood table where the rest of her belongs were waiting for the fourth time, he picked it up while his agent continued to speak in his ear. All the display said was Logan, which he assumed was her rich boyfriend. Most likely the other man was wondering where she was, possibly fearing the worst. That she was alone in an alley, a hospital, or a stranger's trunk. Perhaps he wasn't the doomsday type and pictured her instead at work, or her mother's house. Both were typical locations for her to hide, he would assume. The last place this Logan would place her was naked in this hotel room, not caring that her phone was ringing while her body recovered its energy after a long night of pushing itself to its limits.

He was happy to let her sleep, doing his best to keep his answers, when he realized he needed to give them, to one or two words, a trait he'd perfected over the years. It'd never served him so well, as once she woke up, they'd have to face what had really happened last night. Control had been lost. He'd fight her tooth and nail to regain it, but he wasn't sure that he had the energy. While she slept, he hadn't been so lucky. His agent wasn't helping. The only thing keeping his interest was her damn phone, which was ringing again.

"Did you hear me? This is a game changer, Jess. I'm going to need you to speak, preferably in a positive manner, and give me an answer."

"I'm sorry. What?"

"I said, you hit the bestseller lists. You're in a different game now. A book tour is something you need to agree to. I know you didn't think it was worth it before, but now not only do you owe it to your fans—people who will be much more likely to buy your next book, but it will continue to boost your sales. It's win-win."

He glanced at Rory, who stiffened before shifting in her sleep. Her arm reached out, to where his body had been just minutes before. He watched as her hand seemed to search for him before going still once again.

"Yeah. Sure, make the plan. I'm in."

"You won't regret it. I'll contact you with details soon. Later."

Jess ended the call. At least now he had a legitimate out, one she couldn't argue with. He was leaving, if he knew his agent—and he wished sometimes he didn't—for at least a couple of months. He wouldn't be in New York, nor would he be a train-ride away in Philly. He was now as unavailable as she was, physically if not emotionally. She could hate him for taking off-that was nothing new. It was the price of doing business with her. He was about to be miserable at the mercy of his agent anyhow; not that she would appreciate how he was further disrupting his life for her sake.

"Jess?" she sat up, wiping her eyes, smearing the faint remains of her eye makeup from the night before. He moved to sit next to her, where she'd sought him out moments before. Part of him, somewhere deep in his chest, just for a moment, wished he'd been there for her. Not just to cuddle up with in her last moments of sleep, but so many times.

He shook his head. He needed to get some distance. "Your phone is going crazy," he said, as if he was her receptionist instead of her lover. He was putting up that wall, the one that had to be strong. If he didn't… well, he'd seen what she could get him to do.

"Right. Makes sense."

"You should probably get going," he said, as if he was sure he it was what he wanted. After last night, he was really only sure that it wasn't safe to even think about what he wanted when it came to her.

She frowned. "Oh."

"Look, Rory, I don't need to know what last night was about. You don't have to worry about me calling this guy and ratting you out. We're both adults, we got what we wanted. You should go. I need to pack."

"Wait," she shook her head, her loose hair waving around her face. Her hand went up to push some it behind her ear. "You're leaving?"

He nodded, doing his best to keep his face free of emotion. It used to be a lot easier than it had become. "I told you from the beginning, I can't stay. My life isn't here anymore."

Her eyes flashed with realization. He couldn't have stopped the next thing he said if he wanted to. It was another mistake to potentially give her hope of a different future, but the alternative was her thinking that he was running away from her yet again. He knew from experience that even if it was how it had to be, it was the worst part of leaving her—leaving her to think she was the problem. She was never his problem. He just wasn't her solution.

"I have to go on a book tour."

She sat back. "Oh."

"I don't know when I'd be able to be back. I can't make you any promises. This wasn't about that. Right?"

She shook her head. "No. I feel like I should apologize," she said slowly, as if she were slowly coming out of a fog.

He shook his head. "Don't."

"No, I mean, this wasn't fair to you, or … anyone. I don't know what came over me," she said at last.

"Everyone has their secrets. What's one more?" he asked.

She looked up, her eyes cutting into him. He hated it when she did that. He steeled himself for her words that would no doubt have the ability to crumble him to dust. "I never wanted you to be something I had to hide. But that's how it always is with us, isn't it? We have these amazing stories that we either can't tell anyone or have to change the names and places to protect the innocent," she said, referring to his own creative outlet that stemmed from their time together.

She stood up and began pulling on her clothes. He probably should have had the decency to look away, but it was clear that decency wasn't their main concern. She grabbed her phone and scrolled through the screen before shoving it in her clutch purse. "Do me a favor?" she asked as she took the few steps over to where he now stood, wearing only boxers. After she left, he'd take a long shower, letting the hot water pound on his face, then his back, wishing he could wash more than just the sweat off his skin. There were other byproducts of the night before that he would never be rid of, no matter what he did.

"Depends," he said honestly. If nothing else, they could now be honest with one another.

"If you ever figure it out," she said with a soft sigh, "let me know."

"Figure what out?" he asked, a frown creasing his forehead.

She stood inches from his face, looked into his eyes for a moment, and then she kissed him. It was soft, her lips on his, perhaps it could have been sweet, if they were a normal couple and she was just leaving to go to the grocery or work, or anything other than going back to her boyfriend. Instead, it was at best bittersweet, the way she lingered but never moved it further. When she finally leaned back, he was left shell shocked.

"Us," she said simply as she looked at him one last time before she just turned and left.

He sat down hard on the bed as the door clicked shut. He hated knowing that no matter what else changed in their lives, it always came down to this. Someone leaving, both of them left raw. It would be so much easier if either of them could give up on the other.

He grabbed his laptop, sat back down, and started to write.


	8. I Hope I Get the Chance to Say Goodbye

Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: I Hope I Get the Chance to Say Goodbye

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

She stared out the tinted window, watching famous landmark after famous landmark come in and out of view as they moved past. Traffic was moving, but not well, and if she'd felt any better she would have suggested they just get out and walk in order to make better time.

Rory glanced to her right, at the man in the tux who seemed unable to remove his cell phone from his ear. She knew it couldn't be helped; after all, if a day went by without his father calling to either check up on him or test his patience and verbal sparring skills, they would probably be checking the hospitals for the older man. It wasn't like she needed extra attention tonight anyhow. She was already conditionally nervous; if she won, then she'd have to give a speech that she never had gotten completely written, and if she lost, she would have to speak to a million people about how she was just honored to be nominated for her work, which was only partially true. She had a competitive nature, after all, inherited from her mother, and she desperately wanted to win, with all the pros and cons attached to the honor.

It wasn't that she had something to prove, exactly, but winning a prestigious writing award would help soothe her mind as to her own merits. Most people would assume that achieving the level of valedictorian from a prestigious preparatory academy and going on to Yale and their journalism school to graduate with top honors were more than reason enough to land her such a great job at such a young age. But she couldn't help that her choice of boyfriend—the handsome blonde with a custom suit sitting next to her in the back of this limousine—made her question her merits. So much of what she'd achieved had come about by favors; not only because she had met the 'right' people, but those people offered her chances in order to sway either her or someone close to her.

Winning this Pulitzer, for which she could still barely believe she was a contender, would do wonders to quell her fears. To his credit, her boyfriend had been especially, and unusually, attentive for the last few weeks. Her missing night, the one that she had spent in the bed of her ex-boyfriend—the one whom her potentially prize-winning piece was about—seemed to wake Logan up. For once, it was her turn to disappear and not give an explanation. She had never offered one, and he hadn't asked. What he had done was turn his phone off during dinners. He brought her flowers, himself, at work. He had most recently whisked them off for two weeks in the Caribbean, for some much deserved rest and relaxation in order to celebrate her nomination.

It had nearly been enough to take her mind off both that night with Jess and the fact she was up for the biggest award she could ever dream to win. The worst part was that she would give up her chance at winning for another night with Jess. Clearly two weeks in paradise had not been enough to push Jess from her thoughts.

Jess… she hadn't heard from him at all. No calls, no emails, not texts. It was as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth, rather than going on book tour. The website his agent had set up for him had listed the dates and places he'd been appearing, and she checked each day to see where his success had taken him. She pictured him trying to find small, hole-in-the-wall type restaurants in each city, doing his best to blend into the local color before showing up at the independent book stores that he'd no doubt fought his agent over, instead of being booked at the normal chain stores. She smiled as she envisioned him doing his damnedest not to scowl at the crowds that had come to hear him read, to ask him the same questions in every city. She wondered how inventively evasive he would be when they asked about Carissa—her literary doppelganger.

As the car finally pulled to a stop in front of the Low Library at Columbia, she realized that Logan had stopped talking on his phone and his hand was reaching for hers. She looked down at their joined hands, and she tried to ignore the sense of nausea that swept over her. She felt guilty in that moment, like so many before, as she found herself thinking of Jess while Logan was nearby, or worse, touching her. Her mind kept flashing back to that night, in Jess' hotel bed; to still feel his skin on hers, to taste him on her tongue. She felt heat creeping up her neck as a blush covered her cheeks.

"You okay?" he asked with a sure smile. His confidence was at once his best and worst feature. "Don't be nervous, just remember, it's an honor just to be nominated," he said to break the tension.

"No. I know. It's just…," she bit her lip and looked up at the staircase that led to the majestic building. "I'm okay. Let's go."

XXXX

Logan had been pulled away for what seemed like the hundredth time, leaving her to sit at the table and read over the program. They were still waiting for lunch to be served and the speakers to start—it was officially a mingling period, giving attendees time to arrive and rub elbows. Not a person in the room didn't know a Huntzberger from across the room, and many wanted to do business at any opportunity. She was, at best, a recognized name, but by only a fraction of the crowd. Instead she sat and smiled graciously as a waiter came by to refill her water.

Realizing she knew the order of the afternoon's events by heart, she glanced over the printed names of the nominees in each category. Her own name of course leaped out of the page at her, under Feature Writing. What she hadn't noticed the first time, however, was another familiar name under Fiction. There it was, in black and white type—Jess Mariano. Instantly she stood, trying to see better through the crowd of elegantly dressed people to filter out the very familiar face. The one face she could still picture, his eyes closed as she pulled away from their last kiss.

The only thing he'd had to do was to ask her to stay. It didn't matter where he wanted her to go, as long as it was with him, she would have done it that last night. She'd all but begged, after all, giving him every opportunity. Since he'd come back into her life as their careers intertwined, there had been a buzz under her skin. Each encounter left her frazzled, but invigorated. By the last night, mixed with the frustration she'd been feeling with Logan and the niggling insecurities about her work, she found herself unable to keep all the questions and long-held feelings for Jess back any longer. Gone were the musings of her teenaged self—the one that went breathless at the thought of being intimate with him. Now her adult self knew the realities of said carnal activities; and she was at a loss for which was harder to live with.

As he turned from his companion, she caught the sight of his jaw-line, and immediately began to cross the room, not aware of anyone else. He either wasn't looking for her or didn't know of her presence, though he looked up at her just as someone else caught her arm, just twenty feet shy of her target. Her breath caught in her throat as he looked from her eyes to the man now whispering something in her ear.

"Sorry. The rest of the night is all about you," Logan assured her.

She smiled half-heartedly. For as many times in the past she wished they could be left alone at these types of gatherings, she now was hoping that either his phone would ring or someone else just couldn't wait to talk with him alone. She resigned herself to returning to their table when suddenly there he was, right in front of her as her boyfriend's arm snaked around her waist.

"Congratulations," he said, his tone even despite his eyes playfully twinkling. She swallowed hard. She knew that look, and she wasn't sure she could take it tonight. She missed him too much, and she could not crack in front of Logan. She owed the man more than that. If Jess had wanted her, then she would have found a respectable way to talk with him. But she refused to be the woman who duped her significant other, making eyes at her lover right under his nose.

"Thank you," she nodded, looking instantly away.

"Are you familiar with her nominated work?" Logan asked Jess, prolonging her escape.

Jess smirked. "I am. It was quite an inspiring piece, I thought. You really got beneath the surface of that guy, told his story with a point of view that most people would have missed."

"My girl's very talented," Logan smiled.

"I can't say otherwise," Jess agreed.

"Do you have a speech prepared?" Rory asked, revealing his role as well.

"You're a fellow nominee?" Logan nodded. "What's your poison?"

"Fiction," Jess and Rory said at once.

"Anything I've read?" Logan asked.

Rory shook her head. "You haven't read it, but you can borrow my copy if you like."

Logan nodded. "Sure. Hey, good luck and all that. We should probably get back to our table," he said, and turned without realizing that though Rory was following him, her hand in his, she was looking back at Jess. Jess simply gave her a nod and watched as she disappeared back into the crowd.

XXXX

As it turned out, she could see his table from hers despite it being on the other side of the hall, and her attention was drawn there instead of listening to the speakers go on about whatever pieces had moved them in particular, be it from this year or years past. Rory surely had read anything they were referencing and was far more interested in sneaking glances across the room.

"Hey, who was the guy that wrote about the endangered birds that nested in orange trees?" Logan asked, his phone out under the table and a screen open.

"What?" she whispered back. "Uh, I can't remember. I need to go to the restroom. It'll be a while before they get to my category," she said, to which he simply nodded and went back to typing on his phone.

She took one last glance at Jess, who seemed to be stoically staring at the podium. She snaked her way back to the main doors, out into the hall, and pushed her back into the cool stone of the hallway. She wasn't sure why she had to leave the room so suddenly, but it felt good to take a few deep breaths and not feel so confined. The confusion, mixed with a good dose of panic, however remained. She closed her eyes and continued gasping full breaths of air until she felt her heartbeat slow from a thundering drum to a pulsing ache.

"Everything okay?"

She opened her eyes, though she didn't need to in order to identify the man who had stepped out of the banquet hall. Her hand went over her heart, to either dull the noise or to protect herself further—both seemed valid reasons.

"I'm just nervous," she stretched the truth. He didn't need to know his presence had increased her anxiety ten-fold. As if he couldn't guess without her informing him of that fact. It was no secret between them that her control level bottomed out when he was around. In fact, he was the reason she was keeping secrets.

"We are sort of the underdogs, huh?" he leaned against the wall next to her. "Can't say it's unfamiliar territory to me."

"Shouldn't you be in Akron or Sacramento or something?" she asked, despite she knew full well the night before he'd been in Chattanooga, at a small store called Twice Told Tales.

"Turns out when you get nominated for a Pulitzer, your agent deems that worthy of taking a night off from the road to put on a fancy suit and lose graciously."

"You look nice," she said, instantly wishing for her words back.

He smiled, his lips widening slowly across his face. "How nice?"

She rolled her eyes. "Stop it, Jess."

"You look beautiful," he countered.

"Thank you, but," she halted when he swiveled to stand in front of her.

"You look tan. Vacation?"

She averted her eyes. "The Caribbean," she acquiesced.

He let out a low whistle. "So you didn't tell him?"

She looked up sharply. "Why would I?"

"If I recall, you're the one that started this, Rory. You're the one that came to my bed, not the other way around."

"Yeah, well, clearly that was a mistake."

He narrowed his eyes. "You don't seem to be the type of woman who makes the same mistake twice. Are you sure you want to define it that way?"

There went her breath again. "What would you call it? You think it was a good idea?"

"I think there are necessary evils. You know that. Just because it didn't lead us anywhere doesn't mean it wasn't inevitable."

"That sounds like a fancy way of saying that I can't resist you," she frowned. "Little bit of fame went straight to your head, did it?"

He leaned in. "Can't you?"

She stiffened as she felt her body want to give into his closeness. She could smell his after-shave; she could feel the heat of his body. It would be so easy to kiss him right now, not to mention so wrong and so risky—but that isn't what stopped her.

"Relax," he said as he drew back. "I'm not going to be the one to tell your boyfriend about what happened."

"I wasn't… I mean, that's not," she struggled with her words. "Why are you out here?"

He shrugged. "You just seemed in a big hurry to get out of there. Aren't they announcing your category soon?"

She looked back at the door. "I should get back," she said, her words full of hesitation.

"Don't let me stop you."

She looked up at him, feeling near tears. She couldn't behave this way. She was much more rational than this. She feared if she kept putting all these feelings aside, she'd explode, and no doubt in a place that was most inconvenient. She certainly hadn't been able to stop herself the last time she was alone with Jess. In order to minimize the collateral damage, she should do the grown up thing and address what might be juvenile concerns.

"Is this really how it has to be?" she asked.

He cocked his head. "Rory."

"No, really. We're just going to keep running into each other randomly, saying nice things to each other in front of other people, and then fading into the background until the next time? Is that what you want?"

He sighed. "Isn't it easier that way?"

"Easy? Is this easy for you? Because it isn't for me! I think about you, Jess, all the time. I can't stop, not since," she bit her lip. She took one last look at the doors that would lead her to the main hall before taking his hand and leading him down the way to the first door she found. It opened into a small conference room, one of many in the library, darkened and, most importantly, not in use.

"Rory," he said after she leaned into him and kissed him. His hands were on her shoulders, keeping her at bay. It wasn't the reaction she'd expected. Though, with no forethought, that wasn't saying much. "You're right. We can't keep doing this," he said.

She moved to sit on the edge of a long table. Realization that it might be easy for him to end this, if it wasn't what he wanted, hit her hard. It was entirely imaginable that she was the only person that had been so traumatized since they'd last parted ways. It was more than possible that he hadn't spent every night in a different hotel room wishing she was there to help him acclimate. He'd never stuck around in the past, why would she assume things would be different now?

He took a step toward her, resting his hands on her knees. "Look at me. Come on, Rory," he said, taking one hand up to her chin in order to lift her face.

"You want to say goodbye. I understand," she said, a single tear falling down her cheek.

He kissed her cheek, where the salty tear had slowed in its path. She searched his face, surprised at his action. It was sweet, heartfelt even. Their interactions had been intense and passionate, but this was soft and genuine instead of hard and needful.

"Actually, the way I see it, we have three options," he began. Instantly hope spread through her. At least, that he had given thought to the situation they had found themselves in. "And each has its own set of problems."

"Problems," she shook her head. "Jess, I don't want to cause you any problems," she began.

"Will you just shut up and listen to me?" he said, "Because I have means of quieting you, if you can't."

She noticed the glint in his eyes, and forced herself not to smile. "Fine."

"Like I said, I see three options. First, we keep this up, but I have to admit, it's exhausting. Having to sneak into rooms and hope that your boyfriend isn't the observant type, all for a few kisses or a night if we're lucky," he shook his head. "Not my favorite option, though it does a have a few perks."

"Perks?" she asked, wondering if that's how he would describe having a near-nervous breakdown, which is what her emotional state had been like of late.

"You know," he said, grazing his fingers down her cheek, continuing slowly down the bare skin of her neck, not stopping once he met the contours of her chest. "Perks."

She blushed. "Noted. Stolen glances, that kind of thing."

"I prefer the stolen kisses myself," he said, proving his point by taking his free hand to cradle the back of her head, drawing her in to press his lips against hers. If he was trying to torture her with these measures, he was going to succeed.

"The second option," he murmured in her ear, "is that you uproot your life, dump the rich boyfriend who takes you on fancy trips, put your career in a major setback, and we try our damnedest not to screw this up on our own."

If he was truly making a plea for her to choose him, she couldn't be sure. Right now it seemed so hypothetical, and until it was him laying it out on the table for her, she refused to truly envision it. Though to be honest, when she pictured it, it all seemed too perfect.

"The issues from that, I'm sure, are obvious," he continued.

"Our being together?" she reiterated.

"It's not that simple, Rory. No matter how it feels now, when we're like this—you have to dump on the reality. Breaking up with this guy, who I'm sure on some level you care about, or else you wouldn't still be with. Your career wouldn't be over, but it'd take a huge hit once his father got word of your split. These guys never just roll over and accept defeat, even if they don't try to take you down," he guessed, what she took to be correctly. Logan, though not insanely possessive, wouldn't just let her walk away with no explanation. "And that's no small thing to put aside."

She nodded. He was right, perhaps, but she didn't want to admit that. Not right now. Not when there was still a third option.

"Lastly," he sighed. "We say goodbye."

She frowned. "Goodbye?"

He stepped back. "Because honestly, it's the smartest thing to do. It eliminates all the wondering, the hoping, the tension. Should we run into one another, we know that we don't have to be cordial or wonder if the other person is up for the chase. We just don't bother. It's like we're in a room with total strangers. We move on."

Panic set in once again. Her heart was in her throat, and she knew that they were running out of time. "Can you do that?"

He shrugged. "I'm not saying any of the options will be easy. But we have to decide. Damn it, Rory, I just need us to agree. Even if we agree to disagree. I can't keep seeing you and pretending that I don't want to touch you, wondering if you hate me or need me. I just want the questions gone."

She closed her eyes. She could not decide this now, in the few moments before she had to return to the awards ceremony to find out their other fates. "I…," she began, but she'd never been good at snap decisions. "I need time. You're right, we do have to decide, but I'm not ready," she looked at him pleadingly. "Unless you want to choose."

"You can't put this gun to my head. My life isn't going to change much, no matter what you decide. If you want to be with me, then you can't be with him. If you don't want to be with me, then I'm not going to live my life differently. The only thing I can't abide is the secrets. It was one thing, back then, but now… it's not who I am now. I'm no saint, but it's too damn hard. I'll take the first option off the menu, which leaves you two. If you want some time, you know where to find me."

"Wait," she cried out as he turned for the door. "I can't make one decision and know it's what we both want. I need to know what you want."

He crossed back to her, grabbed hold of her and kissed her. It was a kiss that shook her; it had depth and impact like an earthquake. She would feel it's aftershocks for some time. She held on tight to him, wondering if he could save her. It was all she could do, to ride it out, and reciprocate in kind. When he paused for breath, his forehead rested against hers.

"It's an honor just to be nominated," he said, giving her a smile before straightening up.

She reached out to fix his tie. "After all these years, I finally got to see you in a tux."

"Good things come to those who wait," he said, grabbing the door to hold it open for her. She straightened her dress, ran a hand through her hair, and walked out into the hall. "Just do me one dignity. Don't make me wait so long. Getting over you, it takes…," he stopped, searching for words. This man was never short of sufficient nomenclatures.

She stopped next to him. "I know. Trust me, I know."

They heard her category being called through the heavy doors they were paused in front of. "I guess I should get back in there."

"Good luck," he nodded.

"You too," she said with all sincerity, as she walked back into her surreal reality, back to the table next to the man she had arrived with, ready to be handed a certain fate. Her turn to choose the consequence the next part of her life would come soon enough—she decided to relish the moment of letting someone else decide, no matter the outcome.


	9. Day After Day, Cutting Away

Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: Day After Day, Cutting Away

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

He stood in the back corner, surrounded by ceiling-height shelves, racked with new and used books—as many as could be packed into the confines of each horizontal space. His eyes grazed the spines of each title-each the culmination of someone's hard work, a portion of their lives and more of their sanity encased between the two covers-dismissing so many outright. It was his practice, to skim the titles, waiting for the one he was looking for, until finally he set sights on one worth pulling from the shelves and deeming worthy of testing out the first page. He used to work from lists—banned books and ones that had earned the praise of his own favorite writers. He'd long since read every book that anyone he respected could ever recommend to him. He wondered if that was part of the reason he wrote himself. It was becoming harder and harder to find things in his life that motivated him, that kept him going. Great books had always been his escape; writing offered him that kind of momentum, and, well, if he was going to be honest—there was one person he could think of that he would rather spend his time with, above all other activities.

They used to stand in aisles like this, side by side, sharing the occasional thought, looking for books and letting the world go by. Once they had made selections, if they'd both gotten lucky as to find something to peak their interests, they'd head off, in search of food or a place to read their newfound treasures. If only one had bought a book, perhaps the buyer would treat the other to reading their selection aloud. They lost hours, listening to each other's words, engaged in each other's thoughts, and inevitably tossing the reading materials aside to wrap up in each other's arms. To quote another writer, it had been the best of times.

Jess flinched as he touched the corner of one book, as he heard the employee from the bookstore announce his name and the single title he'd produced over the sound system, inviting anyone in the store to come listen to him read and answer questions in ten minutes' time. He checked his watch. He only wanted to read to one person and he hadn't seen her in weeks. The only question between them loomed over his head like a cloud—and he was growing weary of wondering if it had a silver lining or was about to unleash a storm.

He meandered back to the room where they'd invited him to relax and wait for his appearance. He poured some coffee into a paper cup, watching the steam roll off the top. He wasn't hungry, but he could use the sugar and caffeine. He'd been up most nights, writing, taking a nap until his flight that would take him to the next stop on his tour, and then he would be busy the rest of the days with whatever his agent had lined up for publicity. Some days he just gave local interviews, while others he was able to crash in his hotel room for a few hours of catch-up sleep before showing up to the next bookstore. Most days he could only be sure where he was by the ticket stub from the airline he had shoved in his pants' pocket. His solace at this point was that this was his last stop—tomorrow he'd be on a plane to Philly, back to his normal life. At least, until he finished his next book, which his agent said that he had several big-named publishers primed to pick up, even willing to distribute it under their umbrella while Truncheon kept it's one and only big-name author in house. The only thing his agent asked for was expedience. Sure, he'd been writing, but in all honesty, he only had a vague idea of what was flowing out of him. As with much of his life, the beginning had come easily, the middle was effortless until he hit a road block, and the thought of the ending made him break out in a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

A knock came to the door, and he looked up. "Hi. I'm Maria—the voice you've probably heard over the speakers. We're ready if you are."

He nodded and took one last swig of coffee. "Ready as I'll ever be," he said as he followed behind her a few paces. He did his best to remain quiet and let these people lead him around. They were just doing their jobs—it wasn't their fault that he'd written a book or been propelled by circumstances he'd never seen coming into something of a spotlight. Granted, he wasn't a household name. But within a very specific community, people were taking notice, and he was put into so many situations that were described by so many that went before him as coming with the territory. Writers didn't write to become famous. At least, the great ones didn't. Writers wrote to unleash all the little things that would otherwise build up inside of them, eating away until there was nothing left. It was their refuge.

He waited at the side as Maria introduced him to the crowd. He had to admit, the number of people that had been waiting at him at each location was definitely larger than his first appearance. He had actually been somewhat relieved to see seven people show up in Montclair, New Jersey so many weeks ago—not only that someone had come but also that it wasn't an overwhelming crowd. Fast forwarding to tonight, he scanned the faces to see what he guessed to be about fifty people crammed into the smaller area they had dedicated to the event, waiting to hear him speak here, in Savannah, Georgia. He'd been meaning to ask his agent if he knew how to read a map, having sent him criss-crossing back and forth this whole time, when it seemed more expedient to have him move either east to west or north to south or some other more logical fashion, but all he got in response was a long-winded speech about promotion and bookings and, well, he'd stopped listening at that point and realized he didn't care where he was going next.

At least, until now.

"Thanks," he spoke into the microphone after a small round of applause died down. "I, uh, generally do a short reading from the book, then if you guys have any questions, I'll stick around to answer them or sign your copies," he gave his little spiel, as outlined by what was expected of him. It all seemed superfluous to him; it wasn't as if Hemingway's words would have meant any more to him if he'd gotten to stand in line to have the guy scribble his signature across the title page. Of course, it might make him wealthy at this point, but getting into books for money was as laughable as starring in a reality television show to gain industry respect.

He went on to read his favorite selection from his novel, the few pages that were in his opinion the most intimate moments between his two main characters. They were just starting to trust one another, having spent more than a few encounters watching the other to see how they would react to each other. The passage included no dialogue—the two characters were just seated on separate ends of a restaurant, exchanging glances and reacting to one another as an event carried out in front of them—small town theater as it was often referred to. But it was the first moment in the narrative that showed that these two had more than separate interests in one another—rather they were connecting on a deeper level, and both beginning to realize it themselves. After that, well, all hell broke loose, which is key to most forms of entertainment, but this was the calm before the storm.

It wasn't until after he finished reading and began to truly look out into the crowd to answer the usual questions—was this based on real life events, was he considering writing another book, why couldn't he have let his characters be happy at the end-all things he not only had defended or discussed countless times, but answers he had so well-honed at this point that most people were actually satisfied with his responses. But as he was explaining why the main character's uncle, the man with whom he was living, had kicked him out instead of trying to help the kid, he saw her. She was standing in the back, with a few other people who had arrived too late to secure seats. She was wearing a fitted cream-colored trench coat over dark jeans, her long dark hair down over her shoulders and tucked behind one ear. Her eyes were trained on him, a slight smile on her face as she had listened to him read to her, as if no one else were there.

He realized he'd stopped in the middle of his answer and tried to push the meaning behind her being here out of the way so he could continue, but he to be honest, he wasn't sure that the rest of his answer made sense, though he continued talking. All he could think about was that this wasn't just the end of the book tour. His wait, for her answer, was about to be over as well.

Jess got through a few more questions, though none came from her, and signed their books, making as little small talk as humanly possible through the task. He did his best to be curt yet polite, and as his signature took him little of a second to scrawl on each page, he went through the line fairly quickly. Finally it was just her standing in front of the desk he'd been trapped sitting behind. He stretched his legs and looked up at her.

"You're an author," she said with no small amount of reverence. After all, she was just like him in respect to the written word. Words had always been her escape as well, and she had a high respect for the craft.

"What gave me away?" he asked.

"You were great," she assured him. "Those people, they were completely wrapped up in your words. They all bought your book. Doesn't that feel amazing?" she asked, by far the most personal question he'd been posed during all these many nights. Not one person had asked him how he felt.

"It's nice to know someone enjoyed it," he offered.

She studied him, and then shifted her weight. "I still think you should have won."

He met her gaze full on. "The same could be said for you," he offered, not offering her pity—he was sincere. He had no reason to schmooze her—she knew that he had read all the nominated work, despite their different categories. Her fate had been his that night, and not just because they'd both lost. Neither would have had anything to write about if it weren't for the other person's existence in their lives. He'd blamed her for all of this, the media circus and all the additional inconvenience that had invaded his life, but the truth was that he was the one that started this, a mirror of how they'd come to be. He was the one that turned to writing about her to deal with what he'd felt was somehow unfinished between them. He had just been seeking to find his own ending. He wondered if she had finally done the same.

"Thanks. I might not have won, but I did get a job offer," she admitted.

"Did it involve traveling to little-known bookstores to interview the poor saps who have to entertain in them?"

"Actually, it's with the _Washington Post_, their Foreign Policy department. One of the editors read my piece and liked my style enough to pull my portfolio and look over my stuff and decided to consider me for an opening they had. Apparently there's so much happening right now they can't find enough people to cover everything fast enough, and they're recruiting pretty heavily."

Jess studied her face as she spoke. She was trying to contain her excitement, but she had help from something else. Something was holding her back from truly embracing this opportunity. "Sounds like your dream job," he nodded. "You couldn't turn that down."

She bit her lip. "Is there somewhere we can go to talk?" she asked.

He stood up, grabbed his bag, and shoved the papers he'd read from into it. "I'm sure we can find something nearby."

XXXX

Maria, the contact at the bookstore, had been very helpful in recommending a place to eat that still allowed for a private conversation. They sat in a back, high-backed booth, him ordering coffee despite the late hour, and her opting instead for just water as they waited for their orders to arrive.

"So, should we sit here and beat around the bush, or just cut right to it?"

She looked up at him, her eyes going wide. "Um. Okay. Right," she nodded, but didn't say anything for an extended beat. He had never been very patient, and it was becoming quite clear that as she hadn't greeted him with open arms and a long-anticipated kiss she was doing her best to give him a gentle goodbye. Perhaps she felt she owed him that, despite him never affording her the same gesture. Though why she felt the need to ambush him here and now was still yet to be seen.

"Rory?" he frowned. "Just say it, all right? It doesn't matter if it's because of him or this new job," he began. "If you don't want to be with me, just say it."

She looked up from her napkin, which she'd been tearing slowly into strips. "I'm pregnant."

He sat back. Words left him—air left his lungs. His mind went blank for a good minute. No one had ever said those words to him—he had never even imagined anyone sharing that news with him.

"Jess. Say something."

"Give me a minute," he requested. She sat back, taking another drink of water and going back to shredding the napkin. A million questions ran through his mind, but only one seemed most pertinent. "Are you okay?"

She her hands stilled. "I was in shock. At first, I mean. I'm just starting to feel sick sometimes, otherwise I feel okay."

He nodded. "Have you told … anyone else?" He did his best not to say the other man's name, about as loudly as he had ever not said anything.

She shook her head. "I haven't told anyone else. I just got confirmation yesterday and the job offer last night."

"Jesus," he muttered lowly, desperately wanting to get through this conversation without the inevitable fact that he would most certainly piss her off once he put his foot in his mouth. He was bad at normal conversations that involved feelings, but this was a whole new ballpark. She was just supposed to have to choose if she wanted to give up one man for another—not giving up her dream career for a baby with a man that she might not have choose given other circumstances. "Do you want this?"

A tear slipped from her eye, and she pushed it away. "I … don't know."

He nodded. "What do you want from me, Rory? Do you want my opinion or my support? I can't read your mind, and I really don't want to make your situation worse."

She pulled out a pamphlet from her purse and slid it across the table. He picked it up with a furrowed brow and paled when he read the title. "Prenatal Paternity Testing?"

She nodded and swallowed hard. "They have to do that test between ten and thirteen weeks. I'm at nine weeks, so I'm here to ask if you'll agree to give me a DNA sample, then I can know for sure. Then I can decide what I need to do from there."

The reality of the situation came crashing down on him at once. It wasn't just that she was telling him she was pregnant or that it was inconvenient timing because of her job offer. It was that she was pregnant and she wasn't even sure who the father was; just whom she was deciding if she was going to put off her career and have a baby with, if at all. If it was his, would that make a difference in her actions than if it wasn't? He suddenly felt sick.

"It might be his?" he managed.

Rory chewed her bottom lip. "It might be. The timing…," she shook her head. "It's not an exact science, but it was around the time we were together. And Logan and I were," she began, but he closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands over them. She stopped as his ability ingest more information waned. "I didn't want to put this on you. But I haven't told him yet, about us, and it just seemed," she cut off, and he removed his hands to look into her eyes.

"Easier," he finished for her. She nodded.

"I'm sorry, Jess. God, I'm so sorry. I never meant," she breathed out unsteadily.

"What do I need to do?" he asked.

"Really? Just like that? Don't you want," she paused. "I don't even know what I think you should need before you agree to help me. Everything's happening so fast."

He stayed silent as their server brought their food and placed it in front of them. He was no longer hungry. He wondered if even she could eat after a conversation like this. As soon as the waiter left, he pushed his food aside and leaned forward. "I just have to know one thing. I'll give you whatever you need, but I think you owe me one answer."

She took in an unsteady breath. "I owe you more than that," she acquiesced softly.

"Before all this," he acknowledged that so much had changed from the last time they'd seen one another, "did you ever decide, I mean, were you ever even going to bother finding me again?"

She looked down, at her plate, or her hands, or maybe her stomach. He couldn't believe the woman in front of him might be carrying his child. His DNA, as it were. "Jess," she managed. "If this isn't yours, do you really want to know what I wanted?"

Suddenly she was asking him to do the impossible. Treat her as if it were his, just in case, but possibly be holding her hand while she found out it was another man's child. It seemed a cruel hand from fate had found a proper revenge for his having stolen his moments with her from another man.

"I understand if you don't want to have anything to do with this. You can just walk away, and I can man up and confess everything to Logan. But I was really hoping to avoid that if I could."

There was something in her voice, something she wasn't fully conveying to him. At least she knew what she was asking. He got the feeling that she'd come all this way and put all this on his shoulders, not just because she was trying to hide her sins, but because she had run to the place she felt safe. She was sitting there, waiting for his answer, but most of all, she just wanted a place to rest.

That was all he needed to know for now. "Come on," he said, standing up from the table and waiting at her end of the booth. "You look like you could use some rest."


	10. Day After Day, But Anyway

Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: Day After Day, But Anyway

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

Rory sat in the waiting room. She looked around the small area, seeing women in all stages of pregnancy, reading magazines, checking their cell phones, and some talking with partners. No one seemed nervous or on edge—at least, no one but her. She religiously checked her phone every couple of minutes, her foot bouncing against the floor, her eyes raising expectantly each time the door opened and another stranger walked in and ignored her as they headed to the receptionist to check in.

She'd attempted to read the book she brought with her—well, one of the books she'd brought. On the ride over, she'd been flipping through _What To Expect While You're Expecting_, a purchase that she bought against her better judgment last week. She told herself that she should wait to see if she even needed any information on gestation or child-rearing before such a purchase. She told herself that no matter what her hormones led her to feel, finding out the results of this test would leave her with some big decisions to make. She might not be in the position to have this baby—not because it wasn't in her plans, but she wasn't sure either man was willing to have a child, especially at this point in their lives. Her career was a consideration. She couldn't take a baby into potential war zones. She could turn the job down—officially she was considering the offer—after all, if it had come around now, surely it would come around again in the future, wouldn't it? But having a baby wasn't necessarily a reason to turn down the job. If she had the right support system in place, she could still have both. But first, she would have to know the truth of her situation. It was hard to choose her path in life when she couldn't see through this fog.

At any rate, she told herself that she didn't have to make any decisions right now. She had time, time that wouldn't make a difference to her. Though, as she read that the fetus was now the size of a prune, nestled deep within her body, she knew that she needed come to peace with whatever she was going to do, and soon. The longer she waited, the more attached she was going to get, the harder it would be to attempt to walk away from all of this. And even though she was still doing her best to hide all evidence of her pregnancy, she felt herself getting attached to the thought. Buying a referral guide was only the beginning. She only read the book in cabs or in the bathroom at work—she had a copy of _Love in the Time of Cholera_ to read when people that she knew were nearby, and to cover it in her bag. But both sat in her bag, untouched, as she could barely keep herself in the seat, let alone to focus on reading as she waited.

"Rory?" came the voice of the nurse, from the door that opened into the doctor's offices and patient exam rooms. She stood, glancing once more at the main door that was still at the moment. She approached the nurse slowly and spoke in a low voice.

"Um, someone's supposed to meet me here, and, well, he's not here yet."

"Your husband?" she asked knowingly. "Just let the receptionist know, and when he arrives, she can send him back to us. We have to get your weight and blood pressure first anyway," she smiled warmly.

"Oh, well," Rory hedged.

"It happens all the time, men running late. Just leave his name with Mary at the desk," she assured her.

"Right," Rory breathed out and stepped back in front of the reception desk. "Excuse me? Hi, I'm Rory Gilmore, and they're taking me back, but if a Jess Mariano shows up, can he be sent back to my room?"

"Sure thing," she smiled brightly and went back to her business. Rory gave one last look to the door and followed the nurse back to the hallway, away from the other women sitting to wait their turns.

Rory let the nurse take all her vital information, checked the chart, and asked if she had any questions about the procedure she was going to have that day. Rory shook her head, took the gown she was handed, and waited for the nurse to exit. She looked down at the standard-issue, tie-in-the-back hospital gown, and sighed. She disrobed quickly, pulling the thin robe around her. She knew it wasn't a place to care about her modesty, but she was still a little cold in the clinical room.

She tried not to question if Jess would show up, hoping that he was simply running late. He hadn't been anything but supportive of coming to this appointment with her, doing what she asked of him. He'd taken her back to his hotel room the night she showed up at his last book tour stop, held her until she fell asleep, and they'd shared a cab to the airport the next morning. She had emailed him the details for her appointment, the when and where, and he'd replied back simply that he would be there. She hadn't felt it was fair to continue on conversations with him at this point—it was bad enough that she was continuing to live with Logan while telling him absolutely nothing. She had lucked out, if she could call it that, and he'd been sent to London for two weeks for business, so except for the occasional Skype or phone call, she hadn't really had to work very hard to avoid him. Her morning sickness had kicked in with full force two days after he left in the middle of last week, yet another thing she wouldn't have to explain until later, if at all.

Despite several signs posted throughout the office, she pulled out her cell phone and scrolled down to Jess' name, tired of wondering where he was. If he didn't show, they'd be able to tell her that she was, in fact, a DNA match as the mother of the child she was carrying, which wasn't really the point of today's exam. She didn't need him to stay and hold her hand through the procedure, but without his cheek swab, today was a bust.

The door opened without a knock, which caused her to look up in surprise. "Sorry. The subway shut down for a few minutes. Am I too late?" he asked, closing the door and moving next to where she sat on the exam table in her pitiful little outfit. "It's okay I'm back here, right? The woman behind the desk told me to come back. But she also called you my wife," he explained.

She nodded. "No, I mean, yes, you should be here. The doctor hasn't come in yet. I'm just waiting."

He nodded and looked around. She was willing to bet this was his first visit to the gynecologist, and it was the standard issue room, with the model of the baby in a uterus on the counter and pamphlets in the little displays about birth control options and female dysmenorrhea and menopause. Finally his gaze fell back on her. "Are you cold?"

She nodded. "A little. But this room really isn't about comfort," she said, nodding at the stirrups at the end of the table.

"Right," he said.

"Jess?" she asked, garnering his full attention quickly. "It's okay. You don't need to try and make this more comfortable. I'm just glad you showed up. Okay?"

He nodded. She saw the relief on his face as a knock came to the door and the doctor poked her head in. She smiled warmly at them both and shook Rory's hand. "So, you're here to go ahead with the CVS paternity testing?" she made sure. Rory nodded, and she went on. "Okay, well, first we'll do the easy part, the swab from each of you. It won't hurt, just a little cotton on the inside of your cheek. The next part is a bit more uncomfortable, I'm afraid, as we'll actually have to collect some cells from the placenta. We'll give you a little something to numb you so it won't be so bad. Afterward you'll have some mild discomfort, but I'll give you a sheet for things to look out for. Do you have any questions?"

Rory looked at Jess. "Just, um, how long will it take, to get the results?"

The doctor nodded. "About two weeks. We have to send it to the lab, and then we'll give the results to you."

"Okay. I guess, let's do this." 

"All right. Now the nurse will come back to collect and bag your swabs, then I'll come back to do the CVS and then you can rest a minute and we'll listen to the baby's heartbeat."

Rory noticed that Jess had the same reaction she did to the last statement. They both stiffened in surprise. "The what?" Rory asked.

The doctor smiled. "Your baby's heartbeat. You're at ten weeks, which is the first time you can really hear it. I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"

The door closed and Rory looked at Jess. "You don't have to stay, you know. If you need to leave after your swab," she said, doing her best to look strong and assured.

"I can stay," he said, clearly not buying her outward façade.

"Really, you don't need to," she tried to argue with him, but he stepped closer to her, took her hand, and squeezed it.

"That might be my," he took a breath and shook his head. "Look, I came all the way here, no one else knows where you are, and you might be in pain. You shouldn't be alone."

She nodded and looked down at their hands. "Do you, I mean, have you ever thought about it? Having kids?"

He gave a short laugh. "Not until recently."

She glanced quickly up at him. "Is it something you want?"

He looked back into her eyes. "Is it something you want?"

"I," she began, but the nurse came in with the collection kits. She pulled on gloves, swabbed each of their cheeks, and sealed them in their respective bags. As she was finishing up, the doctor came in, ready to prepare the exam, and thus putting their conversation on indefinite hold. As the doctor prepared the needle that would numb her locally, she found that as she reached out, his hand instantly met hers again. She closed her eyes as the doctor gave her the shot, and tried to just focus on the feel of his warm hand encasing hers. After that, all she felt was some pressure and opened her eyes when the doctor informed her it was all finished. Jess didn't let go of her hand, and she was suddenly filled with relief to have someone with her. She'd steeled herself for the idea of being alone for the better part of anything related to this pregnancy—if she couldn't tell the father, who would she turn to for help? She looked up at him, studying the lines of concern on his face, the set line of his mouth; she could tell he wasn't thinking about the way this affected him. She knew he was concerned for her—her discomfort, her worry.

The turn that her life had taken hit her. Even if this was to be their future, this wasn't the way it should have happened. Nature had skipped its due course, and any joy that they should be experiencing was dampened by 'what if's and 'might not's. She should have made a decision—she should have been smart enough to follow her heart and put an end to living this duel life weeks ago... . She felt tears start to stream down her face. She wanted to apologize to him, and to the tiny little person taking form inside of her. She felt him squeeze her hand.

The doctor applied some gel to her stomach and took out a little wand-like device, pressing it down and moving it in different positions. After a minute of searching, suddenly the faint, fast fluttering became audible, the only sound in the room.

"There's your baby," the doctor smiled. "Sounds good and strong," she advised. "I'll just leave you to get dressed. Stop by and make an appointment to come in and discuss the results of your test in two weeks, all right?"

Rory nodded, wiping tears away from her face with her free hand. The moment the doctor left the room, she turned into Jess's torso, and he held her head as she cried. They stayed like that for what felt like forever, her tears being absorbed by the soft cotton of his shirt. When she felt empty, she pulled back and took some deep breaths.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting to hear that. I mean, I knew what was happening, but that made it so … real," she blinked away the last remnants of liquid from her eyelashes.

"It doesn't have to change your decision," he said softly.

"I know. There's just so much I didn't anticipate. I know I have the right to choose what to do, but I'm not the only one that will be affected by my choice," she led, looking up at him again.

"Rory, I can't tell you what to do. I can't tell you what I want. This isn't something I ever would have planned," he admitted. "But the thought of you not wanting my kid and staying with some other guy," he closed his eyes as if he were in pain.

"Jess," she could feel the tears coming again. "I'm sorry. I just feel like I should find out all the facts first, before I," she shook her head.

"We should probably get out of here," he said after a long silence. She knew it wasn't fair, not giving him anything further, after he'd been so kind to her. He was being selfless; coming all this way, supporting her, and not asking her for anything.

"I need my clothes," she replied, and he bent over to pick up her neatly folded clothes from the exam chair. He turned his back as she shifted off the gown and finished wiping off her stomach before dressing quickly. She stood, and he turned to face her.

"I guess I should get going," he said, not sounding as if it were his schedule that was drawing him out of the city.

"Do you have time for lunch?" she asked.

"Look, I'm sorry I said," he began, but stopped short. "I just don't want you to think you have to," he failed at his words again.

"Just come have lunch with me," she requested.

"Rory, what do we possibly have to say to one another? What's done is done, and if you're not ready to make any decisions," he hesitated.

She could feel herself losing him. She knew if she couldn't give him a reason to stay right this moment, he would get on the train, and she would let the doubts creep back in. It was easier, once he was gone, to slip back into what she knew—the world that she'd built up around her. It wasn't always easy to be there, but it was static. Each passing day allowed her to begin to believe that he wouldn't want her or didn't need her, when in reality she was the one that remained unavailable. This baby was not a reason to choose either man. If she ever wanted to allow them both to believe in each other, she needed to just follow her heart and let the consequences play out as they were meant to. She couldn't mess up their due course any longer.

Rory reached out and put her hands in his, leaning her face up to kiss him right there in the exam room. She kissed him the way she wanted to while listening to the baby's heartbeat, the way she wanted to kiss him the night after she didn't win the Pulitzer, and the way she wanted to kiss him the day she first finished reading his book. He wrapped his arms around her, exchanging the emotion that was pouring out of her and into the kiss.

She breathed out hard as they broke apart, just an inch or so, and looked up into his eyes. "So, lunch?" she repeated.

He nodded. "Yeah. I can stay for lunch," he agreed.


	11. Sweet and Divine, Razor of Mine

Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: Sweet and Divine, Razor of Mine

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

Fatherhood. The concept at once held a weight that terrified him and still managed to elude him. It had never chosen him in the past in any form. His own father had walked out on him before his first night-time feeding, and none of the deadbeats his mother had ever allowed into their home gave a second thought to showing him any attention. The only constant male figure in his life had been his uncle who, while never failing in his dependability, left something to be desired in the bonding department. Jess was fairly sure he would give the same care to a house plant he was watching for a neighbor that he gave any kid that came into his care.

Not that Jess was complaining. He'd gotten over his demons, in regards to his incredibly unorthodox upbringing by a woman who was a verifiable, if not well-intentioned, nutcase, and a father who gave a new meaning to the word nomad. Until recent years, that was. Sure, his mother was still crazy, but she was married to another person that was more certifiable than she was, but they made sense somehow. And his father was sticking around for a kid that wasn't even his, 3000 miles away from where he'd left his own child without a trace. The fact that Jess had come to terms with both his parents had come more out of his own sense of survival rather than any need to connect with his parents.

It struck him, however, that if fate saw fit to bring a child of his into this world his conscious would not allow him to put a faultless infant through what he had survived. In his eyes, he'd gotten lucky after hitting rock bottom. He was perhaps not an upstanding citizen, but he was respected by some in his field, and he'd known love—he could have so easily taken a wrong turn after failing out of school and getting kicked out by the only relative he thought would ever be around for him, yet somehow he was resilient. He wouldn't wish his trials and tribulations on anyone, least of all his offspring.

On the different side of that same coin, his child might not ever be given a chance to be screwed up. He supported a woman's right to choose—and he had always foolishly believed that it would most likely be the safest option in any scenario that a woman ever inform him that he'd had a part in getting her pregnant—but now that he found himself sitting back and waiting to see what Rory's decision was…. He couldn't help but feel pain at the thought of losing what might be the one woman and the one child he wanted to be around for, to love.

Jess sat on the subway, yet again in New York, at her insistence, to come hear the test results. He'd given her the chance to be alone, if that's how she wanted it to happen, but she never hinted that she preferred solitude while he was present. It had been two weeks—two weeks that had been unlike any other in his life. His agent had put him on a schedule—he had to produce pages by a deadline, or he'd threatened to walk. Jess had joked that it wasn't a good threat, as it would be a reward to his sanity, but in the end he knew that his continued success wasn't just about him anymore. He owed it to the other guys at the publishing house, the ones that took a chance on him in more ways than one. He would never say he owed it to his readers, because that sounded too pompous, but if he was going to get another book out, it was either going to take dedication or a major heartache to prompt him, and he preferred the first option, if he could get it.

He also spent a good chunk of the waiting period coming into New York to stay for several days in the absence of the other man in Rory's life. Her boyfriend was off in Europe for business, which prompted Rory to ask him to come and stay. To keep her company is how she put it, but after he checked in with his partners in Philly and acquired a large stack of manuscripts to work through, he did as she asked, trying out the role of supportive partner and potential father. In the moments he was able to forget that he was living in another man's apartment and sleeping in another man's bed, he found that it came with ease, the tending to her newly acquired system-the one that prompted her to eat seven times a day, to flee to the bathroom to throw up at four in the morning and again two hours after she ate lunch. He covered her with a blanket when she fell asleep on the couch watching reruns of _The Office_ and pretending to be working on notes for work before they shared dinner. He stumbled out of bed in the middle of the night to put a cool washcloth on her neck and hold her hair back while she emptied her stomach. But in the end, he couldn't stay, not forever. Soon it was time to clear out, to give her time to get the space back to how it was expected to look to a man that was oblivious to the predicament she found herself in. No matter what, she'd told him when he stepped into the hallway to leave, she wanted him there when she found out. She needed a familiar face, she needed comfort. And he'd become more than adept at providing that for her, even in their state of suspension.

As he climbed up the stairs from the subway tunnel, he checked his watch to find he had a good half hour before he had to be at the doctor's office. He'd been late the last time, and he knew it unnerved her. He figured her nerves had been through enough lately, and wanted to cut her a little slack. Even if the kid wasn't his, it deserved a peaceful atmosphere. He stopped in an independent coffee shop, wondering if she was still gazing longingly at mugs of the warm liquid, as she had been erring on the side of caution and only allowing herself one slip a day into her comfort ritual. His body was still his own, and therefore he had no qualms other than the fact that she might smell it on his breath and shoot him a glare for having imbibed without her. The fact that she might well find out she was pregnant with another man's baby and exit his life weighed in the back of his mind, and he ordered a triple espresso and put aside any notions about fairness.

He felt the same uneasiness that he had the first time upon stepping off the elevator on the floor that held her doctor's offices and a few other medical offices. It wasn't that he minded stares that a man garnered from walking into an OBGYN's office, or the assumptions that came with it. He knew it was the mounting anxiety of first being there to give his DNA and today the apex of it all—to find out if his DNA matched the cells that were busy multiplying and growing inside of her.

This time, however, he didn't have to check in with the receptionist or hope to not walk in on the wrong pregnant woman. This time when he opened the door to the waiting room, she was seated along the opposite wall of chairs, a magazine closed on her lap, her eyes trained on the door, instantly fixed on him. He closed the door and made his way directly over to join her, sitting down as if they hadn't just spent four agonizing days apart, in separate states, living separate lives, connected by this one life-altering circumstance.

"Hey. How was the trip?" she asked, just as she would any recent traveler. He tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. He didn't know what was appropriate conversation anymore either.

"Fine. Uneventful. Did," he began, but thought better of bringing up the other man's name.

"Yeah, he's back," she offered, knowing his mind. They'd fallen into each other so well while he stayed with her, a domestic aptness that allowed them to finish sentences, to anticipate needs, to not need to talk in order to communicate or feel comfortable.

"Did you tell him?" he asked, wondering if she was still sharing secrets only with him. He didn't know if that would make him feel better or not—the burden of knowing a secret like this was not pleasurable, but the thought of the other man being the one she turned to didn't exactly thrill him either.

"No. He thinks I have the stomach flu," she bit her lip.

"Right. Still queasy?"

"Like clockwork," she nodded. "Listen," she began, but the nurse came to the admittance door, calling her name. She stood up and he followed her, back to the small sterile room where they'd learn the fate of their affair. The nurse did the usual vital checks, even though Rory wasn't really being seen for a true appointment. The doctor wanted to meet with her to discuss the results, so she wasn't given a gown after her blood pressure was taken and her weight recorded.

They were left alone until the doctor came back, and Rory gave him a tight smile from her perch on the exam table.

"You were about to say something," he reminded her at last.

"When?" she furrowed her eyebrows.

"Before the nurse called you back. In the waiting room," he prodded.

"Oh. Right. Nothing, I've just been thinking, since you left. Well, before that even. Before the baby, or the pregnancy, it seemed so complicated, but now I wish that's all I had to think about. Still, sometimes I wish I could just make that decision, and then figure out," she put her hand on her stomach. He wondered if she could feel anything more than nausea. He'd flipped through her book on pregnancy while she was sleeping one night, reading the section most relevant to her current stage, and he knew she probably wasn't able to detect anything other than a little bloating. But still, her hand still instinctively went to her abdomen more and more lately. He wondered if she even realized she was doing it.

"It's kind of too late for that," he sighed.

"Oh. Yeah. I know," she frowned.

"Do you know what you want to do?" he posed.

"Well," she began. "It's not so simple. I mean, it's the reason I couldn't bring myself to tell Logan. If it was his, and he found out, he'd want me to keep it, no matter what I wanted."

Jess frowned. "And you're not planning to tell him, ever?"

Rory looked up at him, puzzled. "Didn't you hear me?"

"Yeah, and not to defend the guy, but as someone in the same boat, I can tell you, this isn't just your problem—it's not just your kid. It's not fair to him, to make this kind of decision about his future, without him ever knowing."

She raised an eyebrow. "He'd want to get married. He's not easy to dissuade, once his mind is set on something."

"Sometimes we have to lie in the bed we make, Rory. Is that why you told me, you thought that I wouldn't give a damn what you decided, as long it made things easier for you?"

His words stung her, he could tell from her reaction. She curled her arms around herself, her gaze averted. "No. Jess, but don't you see, it's not fair… it's not fair for me to make any decisions, if it's not what you want, and if it's not yours… I don't feel like my life is my own completely anymore. I have to take other things into consideration. I have too much on the line here."

"You want to take that job," he reasoned.

"And I can't saddle anyone else with a kid while I do that," she said, her eyes once again looking into his.

"Those are the kinds of decisions that parents make," he said, though his never had. They'd never been that ambitious, nor had they ever chosen him, not in any real sense. He felt more and more strongly, this was a job he could do, if he chose—if they chose this life together.

"I know. But I can't predict what the test results will say, Jess. What if it's his? Then we're done? I just won't see you anymore? I turn down the job, get married, and what? Is that what you want?"

"Damn it, Rory, do you really care what I want?" he asked, frustration enveloping him.

"Yes! I can't do this by myself, Jess," she practically yelped, her voice and hands now shaking.

He stood up and walked over to her, putting his arms around her. "You won't have to," he assured her as the doctor knocked at the door, a brief warning before opening it into the room.

"You all ready?" she asked the pair, still holding onto one another on the exam table.

"You ready?" he asked, softly in her ear.

She nodded, "It's time. So, you know?" she asked the doctor.

The doctor held up an envelope. "Some people like to read it themselves. Others can't bring themselves to look. It's up to you," she offered.

Rory hesitated. "I'll do it."

"If you're sure. If you need a referral, to talk to someone or anything else, let me know. Otherwise, just make an appointment for next month on your way out, okay?"

Rory nodded and took the envelope in her hands. The doctor left the room, and they were once again alone in the room—and yet, there was the sense that they were not alone. There was a heft of information in her hands, and he cleared his throat as they both stared at the sealed envelope.

"I guess it's time," he said quietly.

"Yeah. I have to find out. It's just," she paused.

"What?" he asked, secretly glad for a few more moments without the full disclosure finally able to aid her decision.

"You know how some women are sure they're having a boy or a girl, before they find out?" she asked.

"I guess," he said, more to encourage her to continue than acknowledging common knowledge.

"Well, it's just, even though I don't know who the father was, or if this is a boy or a girl, I've just had this image in my head. Every once in a while, when I'm just waking up or just about to go to sleep, it sort of flashes through my brain. Sort of vision I guess," she hedged, turning the envelope over in her hands.

"And what do you see?" he asked, not used to sussing out the details from most women's thoughts. He knew it wouldn't make a real difference; it wouldn't change the test results. But still, it made a difference to him, to know what she envisioned in those quiet moments.

"It's just this scene; a bed, with a little boy, sitting between us in bed, holding a book, pretending to read it, not letting us help him, but still too young to make the words out himself."

He smiled, despite himself. "Sounds like my kid," he offered.

"I better open it," she said with a sad resolution. "I won't ask you for anything you don't want to do," she promised him.

He nodded. "I know. But I can't interfere if it's his kid," he reminded her, more out of obligation than anything else. They'd come so far, so close so many times, and he hated the idea that another man's decree could wipe it all away, but yet, there they were.

She nodded and took a deep breath, slipping her finger in the edge of the seal, sliding it across the top, leaving a jagged paper edge in her wake. He knew that she could be about to do the same thing to his heart, but he tried to put his own feelings to the side. This was much more than just what he wanted, what he'd planned.

Jess watched her face instead of trying to read over her shoulder. She gripped the paper with both hands, as if she might wring the life out of it once she was done. Her expression was that of concentration as she skimmed the words, and he was almost sure she was rereading it for certainty as her eyes darted back and forth over the same spot more than once. She held out the paper after a moment, her expression softer, but not one he could place.

He looked from her to the paper as he took it from her offering hand. His eyes took in the medical jargon and the numbers and interpreted the clear message it was conveying. He blinked and looked up to her expectant eyes.

"What was the book?" he asked, causing her to frown a little in confusion.

"What?"

"In the vision you had. What book was the kid trying to read?"

She smiled. "_Where The Wild Things Are_," she offered.

He smiled back. "Care for a trip to the bookstore?" he held out his hand to help her off the exam table. She took hold of his hand, and immediately he gave it a soft squeeze. He didn't know how else to let her know it was all going to work out—he was never one to offer guarantees.

"Jess, there's so much we have to," she began, but he shook his head and she stopped.

He stepped up and put his hands on her face. "I know. Come on. I'll show you an article I read in today's paper that said two cups of coffee a day showed no detrimental effects to fetuses."

He kissed her nose, teasing her, and she shook her head. "I guess we can talk after the bookstore."

"It's nice to know you can still be led around with the lure of books and coffee," he said as he opened the door for her to pass through.

She shook her head and laughed at him, and he just watched as she moved. She was carrying his child, and from now on the decisions she would make would be a part of his life. She now had a hand in altering his history, his course. Not that she hadn't in the past, but now it was so much more tangible—visceral in the sense that he felt a part of him was no longer accessible without her. Cutting her out of his life had been like trying to cut off his hand and hoping a new one would grow back. It left marks, scars, and changed the way he did things. But he had survived. Now that he had readied himself to live with or without her, having her was a gift that he knew how to use. All the rest would come. But he was never going to pass up an excuse to frequent a bookstore.


	12. Sweet and Divine, Razorblade Shine

Story Title: Razor

Chapter Title: Sweet and Divine, Razorblade Shine

Pairing: Lit

Rating: T (for now); some language

Summary: Future Lit; Rory's trying to get a foot in the door in the journalism world and she's dragging Jess along with her against his will. If past performance is the indicator, he wants to avoid any contact with her; professional or otherwise. Story and Chapter titles taken from the Foo Fighter's song, Razor off In Your Honor.

Rory Gilmore had never entertained the circumstances she currently found herself in. She had been very focused, for as long as she could remember, working toward a goal that was aimed solely at her success. She'd never truly stopped to think that she wasn't being careful or forthright in her path toward her aspirations. She got sidetracked a little on the way, but nothing had ever derailed her to the point that made her stop and consider that there were other options out there for her, or at the very least, other avenues that could offer her both her aspirations and other joys at the same time.

Fear had stricken her, when she took that pregnancy test, knowing before the timer was up that it was going to confirm what she'd already known to be true. She was smart—able to do the math effortlessly, knowing at once she was under water. It was not the kind of issue that she could guess at and hope for the best. Paternity was not a topic that lent itself well to guessing games. She wasn't the sort of woman who needed the help of Maury Povich to solve her baby-daddy questions. She was, instead, the sort of woman who had spent a portion of her life ruminating on the loss of a love to the point that she had felt helpless when faced with the temptation of finally getting to express all the unsaid words, the unexpressed emotion, and the carnal exploration; despite her ties to another man. A man that did not deserve her infidelities, her omissions—he was a good man. He just wasn't the man that had first won her heart.

Life with Logan would have been privileged—happy in the sort of way that she would have everything she could want, in a matter of speaking. She would have opportunities, she would have material things. But she would never have his full attention, though she would have been busy with her career to the point that she might not have noticed that for years to come. It would have blindsided her even though it was right there in front of her all along, how they were living parallel lives, together for reasons neither could remember. They would have had a time limit, under the best of circumstances.

Keeping this baby, the option that eased her mind the most, despite all the considerations and complications that it brought on her, was only fathomable to her if it was something the father wanted as well; a dad was the one thing she had not been gifted in the truest sense. Her father at this point in her life was someone she talked to, but they knew each other as adults better than they'd ever known each other when she was a child; when she could have used him the most. She wouldn't trade her life for anything—she'd had a happy childhood thanks to an overambitious and determined young mother. But she couldn't help but want more for any child of her own. She never wanted this baby to question its place in this world or the love that its parents had for it or for each other. That was weighed the heaviest of all on her shoulders as she considered how best to proceed.

Logan would have insisted she keep the baby. He would have done the honorable thing, standing by her, getting her the best care, putting a ring on her finger, whether he'd been planning on being with her for the rest of his life or not. She knew he loved her, as much as he wasn't entirely comfortable with the idea of monogamy at first. He was expected to get his act together and produce an heir, and she was probably viewed as his best bet. She stabilized him, as much as anyone ever had, and she could be trusted even more than a blood relative to push the family business in the best direction. Underneath it all, she knew that eventually this would be a source of contention for them. He would resent her reining him in, just as he resented his father. He might not walk away from her, but he would show his displeasure in other ways. She wondered if she would put up with an unhappy marriage, with her sins niggling at her, making her wonder if it was simply karma at play.

But with Jess—things seemed limitless. They always had; a fact that terrified her when she was seventeen, but it gave her hope now. It was not a guarantee in her mind what he would have her do, in a perfect world. He knew that a perfect world was an oxymoronical ideal that only dreamers that moved to communes believed in. Dirty hippies, as her grandmother always called them. She couldn't imagine him dreaming of someday having a family, hers or someone else's; his dreams had evolved out of survival and diligence. It wasn't that he didn't want to be happy; he just didn't see it as his primary motivation. Like her, sometimes his happiness came from a place that made him feel like he was stealing it. And that's what they had always done—stolen each other for a short while, from other people, from their chosen paths, but as much as she tried to feel guilty, all he'd ever made her feel was a need for more.

Rory had no misguided notions of him proposing just because she was carrying his child. He didn't see pregnancy as a reason for matrimony any more than she did. That wasn't to say he didn't want to be with her, or he couldn't be a good father. He was just much more likely to tell her the truth, whether or not it was what he thought was 'right' or just what he thought she wanted to hear.

In the end, it had worked out better than she could have anticipated. She stood in an elevator, riding down thirty floors to the lobby, set to hail a cab to take her to a hotel where Jess should be already waiting for her. She hadn't seen him in a weeks' time. They'd talked, touched base, when they got quiet moments, but for the most part she needed to fill him in on nearly every aspect of what changes this week had brought. Some he expected, but she was nearly vibrating with the newest development, something she had to share with someone soon or else she might well burst. No one would appreciate it as much as he would; in fact most other people probably would think she was crazy for being so excited. They had done their best to hastily make plans for the coming months in the short time they'd had before his return to Philadelphia last week, at least for as far as they honestly thought they could handle. But now—she just couldn't wait to tell him how much better the direction they were veering toward had gotten.

The journey in the cab seemed to last an eternity, but she was at last in the hotel lobby, asking for his room number, when he came walking over from the elevators. She took in the shape of his body from her periphery, able to pick him out of a crowd of thousands if she had to, turning her head to watch the way his plain black tee shirt clung to his toned biceps underneath the fabric, the gait of his walk, the perfect fit of his jeans. It took her a moment to realize that the look on his face was that of concern. She thanked the concierge and smiled at Jess.

"Are you okay? What took so long?" he asked in a tone so low it sounded conspiratorial, taking her elbow and leading her just out of earshot of the front desk staff.

"I'm fine. I had a meeting and it ran a little later than I expected, and then I had to make a phone call," she rambled, not fully explaining any of the details she was so excited about.

"Are you feeling okay?" he repeated.

"Oh, yeah, I'm okay. I threw up in a dumpster behind that deli on 86th and Amsterdam."

He smiled. "Good. You can get food poisoning just walking in their front door."

"I don't want to talk about my vomit," she said as she raised an eyebrow.

"It's not really your most attractive attribute. Neither was the way you deboned that chicken," he said, referring to their last meal together, just after they left the bookstore. Shopping had always made her hungry, but even he had never seen her eat that much or in such a voracious manner. It wasn't as if she could help the fact that she was eating for two, which, with her familial metabolism, meant eating for eight. "I've never seen a waiter cry like that."

"Can we go upstairs, please?"

He smiled. "Someone's eager."

"I have some news," she corrected him, though the thought of what he alluded to was planted in her mind, unlikely to budge and able to be set off by a hair trigger. They hadn't had a chance, not since he'd been staying with her, to truly be together. She had originally thought she just wanted him around so she wouldn't be clanking around in that huge apartment, the one Logan picked, by herself, pregnant and alone. She hadn't set out to be so physical with Jess, not there. It was bad enough that she had another man in Logan's apartment, but in the end she had invited him into the bed so effortlessly after he held her hair back the first night, rubbing slow circles on her back as she crouched over the toilet, his palm slid under her night shirt, soothing her without being asked. It was then she knew—she would be devastated if she had to break his heart—hers would be irreparable as a consequence. She'd taken his hand once her stomach stilled, not letting go until he was in bed next to her, and from then on it was as if she wasn't the only one that lived at an address too swanky for her means and upbringing. They were two peas in someone else's pod.

"Let's go upstairs," he nodded, taking her stuffed shoulder bag from her with one hand and slipping the other into her palm.

XXXX

She sat on the edge of the bed and gulped some water. Her body was constantly in need of things in a way that it never had before. Her current need for water was such that she almost—almost—didn't miss coffee anymore—she just couldn't stand the idea of ingesting any more liquid than she already was. Some things tasted better to her than ever before, but the next day she wouldn't be able to stand to even think about eating the same thing that had been nearly a delicacy the day before. Luckily, now she wouldn't have to hide her habits, which were already strange enough, but now were downright comical, she assumed. That poor chicken had never seen her coming.

"You sure you don't want to rest?" he pressed.

"I'm fine. Why are you so worried about how I'm feeling?"

"You're sweating."

She put a hand to her forehead. "Oh. I'm always hot lately. And I was in a hurry," she said, peeling her button up shirt off, leaving a camisole to cover the top of her body. It did feel better, the cool air hitting her arms.

"We have the suite until the day after tomorrow. I have to go on a show tomorrow, and do a radio thing the next afternoon, so," he explained.

"Which show?"

"It's nothing," he assured her.

"Jess, come on," she pressed, giving him a slight pout.

"Fine. _The Today Show_," he relented. "And no, you cannot come," he pointed a finger at her.

"I was joking! I would never, ever actually proposition Matt Lauer!" she feigned hurt. "Honestly, I mean, just because he's on my top five list," she shook her head. "But seriously, that's amazing. Your agent must be beside himself," she laughed.

"Yeah. I think he pulled something when he twisted my arm. But I guess if I want people to read my next book," he sighed.

"How's the writing?" she looked sidelong at him, knowing all the complications she'd inflicted on his life had taken a toll on his preferred professional methods.

"I'm about halfway done. I think," he frowned.

"That's amazing. My being gone helped, I guess," she offered, guiltily.

He shook his head. "Actually I did most of it while I was in New York last time," he said, his dark eyes locking onto hers. Now she felt heat building. As a writer, it was a unique feeling to be someone else's muse.

"I'm pretty sure Logan won't let you sublet again," she said as she kicked off her shoes and pulled her feet up to stretch out on the bed.

"How did that go?" he asked, though she couldn't imagine he really wanted the finer details.

"It was," she paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully, knowing he could easily read too much into them, "long. He wanted a lot of answers. Apparently it's not like me to make rash decisions."

"So, you told him?" he assumed.

"Just what I thought he needed to know. I didn't tell him about you specifically or our plans. He's not a part of that. I told him that I didn't want to be with him anymore, and he asked if it was because I wanted more, to get married, and I told him no, and he didn't believe me, so finally I told him that I had fallen in love with someone else."

Jess nodded. "I bet he had a few more questions then."

Rory shrugged. "Actually he told me to get out. We sort of," she shook her head and sighed. "Back in college, we broke up, and he basically slept his way through his little black book while we were apart, and I took it badly. So, he sort of had a right to be pissed. I knew… I expected it. I left, and he had someone collect my things and bring them to the lobby for me. It's all in storage," she nodded with finality. "It's over, I didn't even sleep there that night; I came home from the dinner with you, and told him, and I've been sleeping at the office all week," she admitted.

"You didn't have to," he began, though she didn't buy it his passing her actions off as unnecessary.

"Jess, would you really have wanted me to share his bed, to go on pretending for even one more day," she began.

He closed his eyes. "Can we not get into that? It was bad enough, thinking about it before. I don't want to," he opened his eyes and looked at her, piercing her. "Okay?"

"Okay. Sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry. I know you had reasons, you had doubts," he said.

"But not about you," she said emphatically.

He stood up and walked to the sink, putting his glass in before turning and leaning back against his palms on the counter. "You know your time is almost up, right?"

She frowned. "What?"

"To change your mind—you're going to be in your second trimester next week, and that's it, the point of no return. Are you sure," he pressed.

"Jess, we talked about this," she blinked. "Did you," she swallowed hard, "are you changing your mind?"

He shook his head. "No. I still think," he paused. "You know this is something I never would have decided to do, but now that it's happening, with you, I'm not going anywhere. But you never seem to have doubts about it, which is a little concerning to me."

"Never have doubts? Jess, I didn't sleep for weeks, well, at night, anyhow. I kept going round and round about what the right thing to do was, for everyone involved, wondering just what it would mean, with both of you, how I was altering people's lives," she shook her head. "I had doubts, Jess. For a while I thought about not telling anyone, just making an appointment to take care of things and not telling anyone anything, ever."

He moved to sit next to her on the bed. "What changed your mind then? What made you tell me?"

She gave a small laugh. "You're going to think I'm crazy."

"Too late," he ribbed her good-naturedly. "Come on, if I'm going to get up for midnight feedings, I think you can give me a little inside information."

She rolled her eyes. It was just another thing she never would imagine herself witnessing, and yet, in a few short months, there would be a baby, in his arms, being rocked by its father. She smiled. "Fine. It was your book."

He frowned. "My book?"

She nodded. "The part in the second to last chapter, where he meets his father's new kid, and he holds it, and he thinks that if she could see him, she might be able to see past all the stuff he'd put her through—to see past the boy he was when he was with her, to see the man that had left in order to do what he thought was best for her."

"I remember," he acknowledged. "You know that didn't happen, right? Creative license and all," he smirked.

"Yeah, but somewhere, inside you, you thought about holding a baby, and when you thought about it, because I know how you are when you write—you see it, you feel it, you could probably even smell baby powder," she pushed, "you were also thinking about me. And I thought, if there is the slightest chance that this was your kid, how could I never tell you?" She was crying now, "Because I see you Jess, I always saw you, the man you've become. I knew it was there, underneath, even back then. I saw you."

His response was immediate; his lips were against hers, tasting salt that had rolled down her cheeks from her eyes, his fingers wiping the remaining tears away instinctively as they ebbed. She grabbed hold of him, her hands balling sections of soft cotton in her fists as she pulled him to her. She leaned back, him easing down over her, in one fluid motion as if they were merely an extension of one another. His hands glided down her arms, making her shiver despite her own already increased temperature. His lips were at her neck, and her head turned to the side, her chin digging into her shoulder, giving him as much room to explore as he wished, but too soon he was sitting up, removing a layer of clothing from his chest and then hers. He wasn't in the mood to take his time; their time apart had been too long given their circumstances. She had no complaints, she wanted him just as badly, and soon her breath was coming in rasps as she held on to his shoulders, rocking against him, watching his eyes close as his jaw tightened.

Moments later, as they lay next to one another, his hand rubbed over her bare stomach as she turned up on her hip to face him. She looked down. "I'm starting to show."

"It feels different," he nodded. "I still can't believe this is happening. I want to promise you I will be good at this, but," he shook his head.

"We'll figure it out," she assured him with a kiss, acknowledging that she had no idea what she was doing either. But as long as he wanted to be there, she knew he'd do just fine. She was almost sure that if she read enough on the topic, she could manage as well.

He nodded. "What was your news?"

She smiled. "I got another job offer."

He frowned. "What?"

She took a deep breath. "Well, I'd gotten a few calls, after the nomination, but the only one that really caught my eye right away, of course, was the foreign policy job. But I called the _Philadelphia Inquirer_ back on Monday, just to see what they had in mind, and it turns out they want me to cover their political desk, which would mean less if any foreign travel, and getting a head start on the 2012 election coverage. But most of it would be local travel, overnight things, and I could be based in Philly."

He frowned still. "Tell me you didn't turn down the _Post_."

She frowned now too. "Why not?"

His eyes widened. "Because it's your fucking dream job, Rory. Surely you're aware." 

"Just because it's something I talked about when I was younger," she began.

"No. It's not just something you talked about. It's all you talked about. You lived it, you breathed it, you said you didn't know what you would do if you couldn't do it."

"I can still do it. Later. But this is just as good, Jess, and it makes it easier for me to see you more. This is a good thing."

"I know you think you have to give up something," he steeled himself, "but we discussed this. Going back and forth. We can still do that."

"But how exhausting would that be? And after a while, it wouldn't seem that bad to skip a weekend, to just stay where you are and keep the baby with you or for me to get a little more work done, and then before we know it," she shook her head. "No. This job is more suited for where I am right now. It won't keep me from getting what I want—this is a part of what I want. And it will prevent me from going into labor in a third-world country that's being strafed by gunfire and extreme militants, just so people can have something to read while they drink coffee and eat their cereal."

He let out a breath, searching her eyes. He didn't look quite ready to give up this fight, but she also knew it came from a place in him that wanted her to have everything he couldn't give her. "You're sure?"

"I want to be with you. I'm tired of being away from you. And I can't be constantly dumping our kid on you for weeks at a time. I have a feeling I might miss you both."

"Doing your job is not going to make you a bad mother," he assured her.

"No, but if I took that job, it would make me an absent one. This job is a better fit. And I already accepted their offer. I start in two weeks. So, that should give us time to find an apartment, unless you really want to stay in your current set up," she offered.

He smirked and shook his head. "Are you looking for some sort of formal askance? I thought it was sort of implied that you didn't want to live with me and five other guys in a loft."

"Well, I mean, we could—but the chances that they'd see me naked are pretty high, given our propensity for, well," she blushed and poked him in the abs. He grabbed the sheet and covered them both as he wrapped his arms around her torso, pulling her in close to him.

"Let's get a place of our own."

She smiled. "I'd like that. Under one condition."

He raised an eyebrow. "No loud music past ten?"

"No sleeping at your desk. You sleep in bed with me."

"You're so strict," he mocked her.

"It's a deal breaker," she smiled back.

"Are there any other conditions or can I kiss you now?"

She beat him to the punch, kissing him to seal their deal. She had no reservations about tying her life to this man, in whatever form they agreed upon. She knew he could hurt her, probably worse than anyone else ever could, but therein lied her problem. The reason he had such a capacity for causing her pain—or to unleash it—was that he was also the only person that could throw her in the other direction, to pure and unadulterated joy, washing her in hope when she might not find any on her own, and making her believe in things that she could not see or touch. She could not tread lightly, as she had in the past, hoping to reap only the benefits without feeling the pain, as the one thing she had learned through this whole ordeal was that if they were not committed fully to one another, it could all fall apart, leaving them both broken in ways that could never be completely restored.

They could make this work, with all the mistakes they would make and the triumphs they would celebrate, but no matter what, it would be because they were both there, present, and working together. Their lives as separate people were functional, but in the end they had lead them to a specific point, weaving them closer and closer and finally back to each other. Both were hesitant to call it fate, yet what were they to call it, the way life had taken the reins and sealed them together? Yes, it had been her own free will, and his as well, to seek out a few more moments together, in whatever form possible—yet somehow those fleeting affairs had taken hold and merged into reality. Neither claimed to be blameless, nor did they have the strength to fight the universe. After all that had happened, it was crystal clear that when it came to each other the pleasure was worth the pain.


End file.
